


MT outside

by Taoroo_Writes (taoroo)



Series: Glass Half MT [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: A very uncomfortable and awkward bro, Accidental food voyerism, Angst, BAMF Prompto Argentum, Bad Puns, Blood, Claustrophobia, Cor Leonis is a bit of a dick, Disordered Eating, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gladio Amicitia is also on the dick-spectrum, Good puns, Hurt Prompto Argentum, MT Prompto Argentum, Marmite puns, Mental Anguish, Mind Control, Minor Character Death, Noct is a bro, Non-Graphic Suicide Attempt, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, Past Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prompto Argentum Gets a Hug, Prompto Argentum Needs a Hug, Toilet humor, Verstael Besithia is a terrible dad, Vomiting, blatant disregard of the Geneva conventions, death-adjacent shenanigans, did I mention Cor Leonis is a bit of a dick, entirely platonic shower scene, everyone needs a damn hug, he's working on it, injury detail, noct is adorable, not-so-friendly fire, unintentional self-harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:42:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 62,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25614529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taoroo/pseuds/Taoroo_Writes
Summary: Prompto's entry into their lives was dramatic, painful, and confusing.But you can never have too much of a good thing, right?
Series: Glass Half MT [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1856518
Comments: 124
Kudos: 409





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey folks, sorry it's taken so long to get this one out. I'm sure I'm not the only one that's had a really cruddy time the last few months, and I've not had the energy to do more than lurk. I've been steadily chipping away at this story, and while I'm not finished (or even 100% on where it's going to go), I want to start getting it out there!
> 
> Do let me know what you think! Suggestions & feedback are always welcome! T x

(Excerpt from _Running on MT_ , Chapter 8:

_  
Noctis says your name is Prompto?”_

_Prompto nods hesitantly. “Yeah, that’s right. Prompto Argentum.”_

_Ignis smiles again, but there’s a steely undercurrent to it that dares him to contradict his words. “Well, Prompto Argentum, I have no idea what horrors you might have faced at the hands of the Empire, but I do know that machines and monsters don’t sacrifice their lives in order to save another – particularly a stranger. There are precious few_ humans _who would even do as much. Whatever other questions may lie ahead of us, please believe that your humanity is not in doubt.”_

_“Oh,” Prompto says, stunned. “Um, okay... Cool.”_

_Ignis sits back and gives him a contemplative look, but he’s still smiling when he adds: “An odd human, certainly, but a human nevertheless.”_

_Prompto snorts, finally reaching for the bottle cap and opening it. “Hey, right back atcha, Specs,” he says, chugging half the bottle in one go._

_It tastes sweet and cool, and fills him with a calm sort of certainty._

_Yeah, everything’s going to be okay.)_

~

  
Ignis contemplated the MT as it— _he_ drinks.

“Specs?” he asked, when the water bottle was empty.

Prompto choked on the last of the liquid, his pale skin flaring brightly in a blush which covered the entirety of his face and half his chest. It accentuated the freckles on his cheeks. Ignis pondered whether this was by design, to aid in the overall air of vulnerability and innocence that radiated from the lad. An unkind thought, perhaps, but one best bearing in mind until they could learn more of their guest.

“Oh, um, sorry… I don’t mean to be inappropriate,” Prompto spluttered, his hands working on the empty bottle, twisting it to pieces in moments. “It’s… um, Noct… he…shit,” he heaved a deep, slow breath, and then fixed Ignis with that same earnest expression once more. “Sorry, I don’t mean any disrespect. It’s just Noctis – I mean the prince – he speaks about you and… agggh! I’m messing this up!”

Ignis couldn’t help but smile at the awkward youth. It was hard indeed to see the young man before him as a weapon of the Empire. Though that might just as surely be the manufacturer’s intent.

“I don’t mind the moniker,” he reassured. “It took me by surprise to hear it from someone other than the prince, that’s all.”

Prompto raised a hand to his head and rubbed at the back of his neck. It was an entirely ‘Noctis’ gesture of awkward embarrassment; a habit the prince had managed to overcome in the latter stage of his teenage years.

“Yeah… um, I guess sometimes I speak without thinking. I don’t get much of a chance, usually.”

Ignis was about to speak when the MT froze, his eyes flickering down to the remains of the water bottle in his free hand. His face lost all its colour in an instant, expression going almost blank, save for the absolute terror in his eyes.

 _Hmm_.

Ignis cleared his throat, ignoring the way the lad deliberately _didn't_ flinch.

"Let me dispose of that for you," he said, holding his hand out. When the bottle was slowly relinquished - Prompto's mouth opening to form the first part of a soundless apology, which caught in his throat - Ignis dismissed it into the Armiger. Usually he would scold Noct for such laziness, but the current situation called for an out of sight, out of mind policy.

“Perhaps we could continue this discussion outside?” Ignis said. He stood, carefully telegraphing his movements and gesturing to the tent doorway; testing a theory. “I’m sure that Noctis would welcome a chance to confirm your state of health with his own eyes.”

Prompto, still recovering from his previous scare, glanced toward the opening with a wary eye, looking like he wished to shuffle back even further from it than he already had.

“Out there?” he asked, a juvenile quaver to his tone, voice almost cracking.

“Is there a problem?” Ignis asked, knowing from the lad’s reaction to his entrance before that there most certainly was.

“Well. Um…” Prompto said, “Yeah, I mean…” he huffed, brow creasing in frustration but his eyes contemplative, “It’s been like, four days since my last injection, so I guess it’s not a total impossibility...”

“Injection?”

Prompto’s face fell, and he took on a shifty air. He eyed Ignis with open wariness, as if he was looking for the trap to his words.

“…You… don’t know?” he hedged, tone as cautious as his gaze.

“Evidently not,” Ignis said, allowing an eyebrow to raise. He knew it was effective in encouraging some of the more timid council members into speaking for longer than they might otherwise do on sensitive topics.

Had been, that is.

Prompto swallowed again and looked away. His body seemed to shrink in on itself, the boy hunching up until he was practically hugging his own knees around the sleeping bag he still sat within.

“I thought you knew I was an MT,” he said, sounding completely miserable.

Ignis found himself softening to the lad, despite knowing better than to allow emotion to cloud his caution.

They’d dressed him in some of Noct’s clothes after cutting the bloodied rags of his previous attire from him. He was of similar heights and body type to the prince, and yet Prompto possessed rather more muscle than his lithe body would suggest. Despite this, the clothes hung loosely at telling junctures, where even a well-trained body ought to amass a standard level of fat. If one were to go by the archaic ‘body mass index’, Ignis was certain Prompto’s number would be near zero. They may as well have dressed him in Gladio’s clothes by the way he disappeared inside the top.

“Though we knew you were an MT, it wasn’t until we saw you beneath your armour that we understood MT’s were of human origin,” he said gently, crouching again before the boy, “and I suspect we know very little of all such a role encompasses.”

Prompto’s eyes widened in surprise. “Oh.” Then he frowned, “That’s very— I mean… I’ll do my best to help fill in the... gaps.”

Ignis was impressed. From what little interaction he’d had with him, Prompto had not been one to guard his words. Though in this case he could understand Prompto’s hesitance to speak his mind from a diplomatic standpoint, not only out of basic politeness. Even so, he agreed with the lad’s unspoken surprise and criticism of the glaring deficit in Lucian military intelligence.

If it _was_ truly lacking, that is. Ignis did not put it beyond those higher in the military, even the late King Regis, to have kept such information to themselves. He was going to have strong words with Cor, were that the case.

Prompto meanwhile, after a moment to gather his thoughts, took a rallying breath.

“They inject us with daemon blood,” he said, and Ignis felt his _own_ blood run cold. “The Starscourge. I’m not, like, L3, but I’m pretty advanced through the second phase.”

“Starscourge,” Ignis repeated flatly, feeling nauseous.

Prompto swallowed and gave a jerking nod.

Ignis held the MT’s gaze for quite a while as he tried to fathom the logic behind those words. Once he had all his thoughts aligned, he politely excused himself, exiting the tent as carefully as he had entered. He took pains to let as little sunlight though the opening as possible.

“Well?” Noct asked, half-rising from his seat by the campfire. By the looks of it he had barely suppressed the urge to come barging into the tent after all, despite their earlier difference of opinion regarding his safety.

“He’s awake,” Ignis confirmed. “I think it would be best if we all convene inside to discuss matters.”

Noct and Gladio frowned at that, both uneasy thanks to Ignis’s guarded wording. But they did as he bid without argument, knowing, no doubt from past experience, that Ignis was unlikely to elaborate when he wasn’t inclined to do so.

Ignis moved aside as they entered, blocking the light behind them and following after, until the three were spread evenly in a line facing their prisoner-nee-guest.

Prompto was still hugging his knees. He watched them with open anxiety, lower lip caught between his teeth.

“Prompto is under the impression that his body will react negatively to the sunlight,” Ignis started, seeing no reason to coat his words.

Noct’s head jerked sharply toward his self-proclaimed friend, who hunched up further under the scrutiny.

“What, like a daemon?” he demanded.

Prompto did flinch this time. He looked decidedly ill.

“Well, yeah,” he said, his gaze averted. His fingers began fiddling with the cuffs of his borrowed top but then spasmed to a stop, the lad placing them carefully and deliberately on his knees.

“You… you guys really don’t know how MT’s are made, huh?” he asked.

They shook their heads, even Ignis, who – thanks to his prior conversation with Prompto – believed he had a fairly robust theory.

“Tell us,” Noct said, sitting on the tent floor. He might look relaxed, enough perhaps to fool their guest and put him at ease; but Ignis could see the death-grip his friend had on his own folded knees, his ‘Regents’ Mask’ firmly in place.

Ignis sat, gesturing to Gladio to do likewise. He knew the man would prefer to stay on guard around a potential threat to the prince, but it was important right now to put their 'guest' at ease.

Gladio sat grudgingly, one leg tucked beneath him and a hand resting casually on the floor – ready to propel him forward and in between the threat and his charge, should the need arise.

“From the beginning, of you would,” Ignis said, “and, please, spare no details.”

Prompto told them.

(He may have spared _some_ details)


	2. Chapter 2

Blood was rushing in Noctis’s ears.

He could barely hear the others as they muttered and questioned, only Prompto’s voice coming through clearly.

Not that this was a good thing. Noctis wished very hard that he could scrub the last ten minutes from his memory completely.

“Are you saying,” Gladio growled, his tone, low with open hostility, cutting through Noct’s berserker rage, “that MT’s are people, like, real, godsdamned humans?”

“Well, um…” Prompto’s face was pale, his eyes saucer-wide. “Not… I mean… I guess at the very beginning…”

“Fuck that, man, you’re human,” Noctis heard himself spit, and saw his friend flinch back at his ferocity. “You're human and those... those assholes treated you like a godsdamn lab rat! Worse; they treated you like you weren't even _alive_. Like you were just parts of a friggin machine.”

“Agreed. Your humanity is not in question,” Ignis said, his words sharply enunciated in that way he got when he was _really_ pissed.

“But—!” Noctis waved his hands, so full of distracted adrenaline he just had to let some of it out, “—Prom, look, whatever shit they did, all that bullshit they put you through, I think it mostly got reversed with the Phoenix Down.” He caught his friend’s confused frown and gestured wildly at his body. “I mean—like, y’know, that crap they had stuck on you— _in_ you—we saw it, right guys?” He shot Ignis and Gladio a wild look, urging them to _help him, dammit!_

“Indeed,” Ignis said, “during your restoration process we saw the blood and your _additions_ burnt away.”

“Just like fucking miasma,” Gladio growled, less constructively.

Prompto had gone very still. The only parts of his body that moved were his over-wide eyes, sliding to each of them, seeking confirmation.

“…Didn’t you notice?” Noctis asked, gently.

It took a moment for the idea to process and then Prompto yelped, suddenly animated. He scooted backwards, arms and legs flailing as he fought to free himself from the confines of the sleeping bag, in danger of ripping it apart in his hurry.

Noctis grabbed the end and tugged, and the bag slid free, leaving Prompto sitting on the tent floor, staring at his body.

His hands moved quickly and mechanically, tugging at his borrowed clothes, seeking out each area that was now little more than scarred, knotted flesh. Each time he reached another he whimpered; little, broken noises of confused distress that grew louder and wetter as he mapped more of his own vandalised body. His probing fingers finally came up to the back of his neck, and paused there, his chest rising and falling rapidly, eyes glassy, staring at nothing.

“That’s the only one left,” Noctis said. He crept closer, slowly, holding his hands up before him like he was soothing a wounded beast. “We think it might be too mixed in with your brain or something… We can look into getting it removed – find a doctor in Altissa maybe, or…”

Prompto shook his head jerkily, scattering some tears, but he fixed Noct with a wobbly smile even so.

“This… this is enough… I…”

His chin trembled and he bit his lips together, clearly fighting to keep his composure in front of them.

_Screw that._

Noctis closed the gap between them, grabbing Prompto around the shoulders and pulling him into a gentle hug that became tighter as his friend broke down. He squeezed hard, hands running over Prom’s head and covering his hands, encouraging them to loose their grip on the plug of metal and wiring still embedded into the base of his skull. Noctis ignored Gladio’s rumbled protests, and Ignis’s hushing response. The only person that mattered now was Prompto, and if his best bud wanted to get all stabby with him or whatever then that was Noctis’s problem to deal with, no-one else’s.

Slowly Prompto relaxed into him, and soon his head was pressed against Noctis’s shoulder. Tears soaked his t-shirt, both of Prom’s hands clinging tightly to the material. Human hands, that weren’t broken, or bleeding, or holding a weapon. Scarred, thin hands, showing too much bone and sinew; milk-pale, like they’d never seen the freaking sun.

They probably _hadn’t_ , Noctis realised. That was the _point._

“I think it burnt away the demon blood too,” he said after Prompto’s sobs had eased up into something a little less heartbreaking and raw. He cleared his throat, trying not to act as awkward as he felt.

“…You wanna try?”

Prompto pulled back, wiping the back of a hand roughly under his nose and rubbing the tears from his cheeks with the palm of the other; as unselfconcious and open as a toddler.

“Um…” he sniffed, “yeah, I guess… I can’t stay in here forever.” He gave a weak chuckle, and Noctis beamed, his heart flooding with pride.

Ignis hummed. After his retainers’ initial spat over Noctis’s actions – which he'd probably be getting a lecture over later – Iggy and Gladio had stayed quiet during Prompto’s meltdown; but now that Noctis got a look at them he could see they hadn’t been anywhere near as uncomfortable as he had. Ignis was as cool and collected as ever, while Gladio was giving him one of those small, lopsided-grin-with-the-narrowed-eyes looks that promised a shitton of teasing in Noctis’s future.

“A staged experiment would seem to be in order,” Ignis said, “Some hair to start with, perhaps?”

He summoned his travelling sewing kit from the Armiger and withdrew the scissors from inside.

“If I may?” he said, coming closer, and holding the scissors before Prompto, well in sight.

Noct could have rolled his eyes. He saw how tense his retainers were. Like Prom could do anything with an inch-long pair of darning scissors!

After Prompto’s nod of accent, Ignis took his sample, even managing not to grimace as he touched the lank, greasy, matted mess that could only charitably still be called hair.

“Do they not believe in hairbrushes in the Empire?” he asked, faux-casually.

“Um, they kinda just shave it off once it gets in the way,” Prom said. He was staying very still, his gaze fixed on the silver blades that worked inches from his eyes.

 _Oh._ Noctis suppressed the urge to grimace. _Maybe Ignis hadn't been worried about what Noctis thought he'd been worried about after all..._

 _Shit_.

“I’d say you were overdue,” Ignis snorted.

Prompto waited until Ignis had sat back to shrug. “It was gonna start falling out soon anyhow. Maintenance of the physical unit kind of gets put to the back of the priority list by late L2 phase, y’know?”

Ignis hummed noncommittally; which was probably all he could dare do just then – Noctis felt like screaming, himself.

His retainer rose, walking to the tent flap and opening it, his gloved hand curled around the hair.

Prompto swallowed and drew back.

Noct patted his friend on the shoulder in what he hoped was a comforting way.

“Well, let us see how this fares,” Ignis said and placed his hand into the light, fingers uncurling.

Nothing. The sorry strands of Prompto's hair lay limp in Ignis’s gloved hand; not even smouldering.

Prompto let out a deep breath. “Okay.”

“That doesn’t exactly prove it,” Gladio cut in. “It just might not react to dead cells.”

Noctis opened his mouth to say that the MT’s that burned away in the sun only did so when _they_ were dead, but thought better of it. He wasn't ready to think about how many of them he'd killed yet, anyway.

“We could take some blood?” he suggested.

Prompto shook his head. “Nah, I don’t wanna risk infecting you guys if there’s still any ‘scourge mixed in. Besides, there’s only one real way to find out, so I should just get it over with, right?!”

With that bit of cheerful bravado, Prompto shuffled toward the beam of sunlight that sat part-way into the tent. With a deep breath he raised his hand, index finger pointing toward the light.

“Dude, shouldn’t you, like, use a pinky or something?” Noctis exclaimed.

Prompto jerked his head around in surprise, hand retreating a little ways. He stared at Noctis for a moment and then gave twisted half-smile. “Nah, dude, this one’s the most disposable, y’know?”

“He’s right,” Gladio grunted, “lose the index and the others will compensate.”

Noctis fixed his shield with a flat stare. “I… don’t want to know why you know that, do I?”

Gladio flashed him a wolfish grin.

Noctis didn’t push for details. He never liked being reminded of the bloodier side of the training his friends’ had to endure just to _stay_ being friends with him, especially when there was a distinct “how to cope under torture” vibe going down.

“Oh.”

Noctis jerked his attention back to Prompto, who was staring down at his hand, which trembled in the centre of the sunbeam, unblemished.

“Neat,” Prom said, sounding incredulous and more than a little bit faint.

Noctis let out an explosive sigh, coming forward to slap his friend on the shoulder. “Called it! ...Nice going, Prom.”

Prompto broke into another high-beam smile. When Noct returned it with a raised brow and a coaching nod of his head toward the doorway, he startled. Adorably.

“Oh! Um, yeah, sorry… lemme just…”

And then Prompto was out.

Ignoring Gladio’s derisive snort, Noctis followed, almost falling over his friend, who had stopped still just outside the tent entrance.

“Whoa there, buddy, you’re kinda blocking the way here,” he said, but he might as well have saved his breath, because Prompto wasn’t listening.

He stood, staring; his eyes as wide as they could go, looking very much like he was about to cry again. Then his shock melted gradually away to a look of pure, serene joy, his body going lax; like he was Titan taking a break from holding up the meteor or something.

“It’s… so much brighter without the helmet,” he whispered, his voice ragged and heartwrenchingly full of awe.

Noctis put his hands on Prom’s shoulders and gently guided him out of the way of the tent doorway so that Gladio and Iggy could exit.

“Yeah, I bet,” he said, feeling uncomfortable; like he was intruding on something almost religous. But Prom was barely paying him any attention, his gaze fixed on the scenery. Noctis left the guy to his sightseeing, flopping down into a camping chair with a grimace as his back flared. Okay, maybe prolonged hugs while kneeling on a tent floor were a bad idea.

“I’ll fetch you a cold compress,” Ignis said as he passed, heading for the ice box.

Half-way through loading up a round of King’s Knight, Noctis was about to protest when a pack was thrust toward him, a firm-eyed Ignis on the other end.

“I’m starved, what’s for lunch?” he asked instead, hoping to divert attention from the constant fussing over his health. He took the pack and shuffled it to his lower back anyway, relaxing into it immediately. It really _did_ help.

“I think we would all benefit from a comforting meal at this juncture,” Ignis said, returning his own attention to their supplies. “We still have some cockatrice breast left from our last hunt… a curry would be in order, I believe.”

“Can’t say no to that,” Gladio grunted. He’d set himself up on the side of the camp, between where Prom had wandered and Noctis. _So_ obvious.

“Yeah. What do you think, Prom?” Noctis called across to his friend, who had crouched down to stare at what looked like a weed growing at the edge of the Haven.

Prompto didn’t respond, but Noctis let it go. His buddy had a lot to catch up on.


	3. Chapter 3

An amazing sensation drags Prompto from his observations of the… what? Without his helm or augmentations he can only remember the basic data; not exactly considered crucial information worth saving to his internal hard drive. Taraxacum: a plant of the _Asterales_ order, whose commoner names included plume-de-bo – for their supposed likeness to a chocobo’s tail feathers – Astral’s crown, and the more colloquial: ‘piss-yer-pants’ thanks to their notable diuretic properties.

“Piss” was another word for “urinate”. Noct taught him that, over a decade ago now, giggling behind his hands. Prompto hadn’t really seen the humour at the time; bodily functions were practical, not humorous. He’d learned to laugh though, when the prince told his jokes; and, later, Noctis had returned the favour, when Prompto told his own.

He wonders if he will get to see a chocobo. The thought is so wonderful it’s nearly overwhelming, but Prompto is _not_ going to break down again dammit! Regardless of the loss in standing the last emotional outburst had caused him, it had been so _embarrassing_.

Though being held by Noct afterwards was… nice, as is the feeling of calm that follows. How many times over the years has Prompto had that same amount of overwhelming feeling and been unable to act on it? To suffer a full loss of control without there being _consequences_? It was oddly a similar feeling to that of his escape, of peacefulness after release that he’s never experienced before. He wishes he has access to his dictionary and thesaurus.

The same smell which breaks through his concentration earlier does so again, and for the first time in several years, Prompto feels hungry.

Whatever is cooking smells _heavenly_ , and he says so to the hand— to Iggy.

“Thank you, Prompto,” Iggy said with a small, pleased smile. “But I ask you reserve your judgment until after you have tasted it.”

He motions to a seat beside the fire.

Prompto wonders about the word “taste”, which seems out of context for some reason. He then studies the chair, and wonders where the piping could be hidden on such a flimsy structure. But then it dawns on him. It doesn’t matter; he no longer has the correct equipment to take in nutrition.

He’s about to say so, when Ignis turns back around with a bowl in each hand, offering one to Noct and another to the shield.

A wave of such relief washes over Prompto that he feels dizzy from it. There aren’t any pipes because they expect him to _eat_.

He stumbles to the chair, then lowers himself down carefully. He still half-expects a tube to fly out the side and stab itself into the knot of scarring in his upper abdomen, but nothing happens.

Then Iggy’s in front of him, holding out a bowl, so he takes it, and stares down at the delicious-smelling food before him.

Food.

Real, Six-damn food. With different colours, and chunks, and textures.

He suppresses a sniffle, but thankfully the attention isn’t on him.

“Aren’t you going to sit, Gladio?” Ignis is asking. “We retrieved the spare chair from the Regalia for a reason, you know.”

“You sit. I’m fine standing,” the Shield says, his eyes fixed on Prompto.

Oh. So maybe the attention is still a little bit on him.

“You’re such a stickass, man,” Noct says, “What’s he going to do? Beat me to death with his spoon? Drown me in his curry?”

Prompto’s shoulders fall. So, the shield doesn’t trust him – which is a sensible precaution – and is preparing for any attacks against the prince. As much as Prompto can understand this safeguard, he doesn’t like the idea of Gladio always being on alert, or that it clearly upsets Noctis.

“Don’t worry, man,” he says. He holds his hands – and as many fingers as he can spare from holding his bowl – up placatingly. “If my mission was to kill or incapacitate Noct I’ve had, like, dozens of opportunities to off him by now!”

They stare at him.

“Dude,” Noct whisper-hisses and leans toward him, making a cutting motion with his spoon across his own throat, “Ix-nay on the illing-kay.”

“Dozens, huh?” Gladio says, tone dry.

Prompto doesn’t understand what Noct said, and wonders briefly why the translation component in his remaining hardware isn’t functioning. But their response to his reassurances isn’t as positive as he anticipated, so damage control takes precedent. First, he has to establish the cause of his wrongdoing; much simpler now than it used to be.

“Did I say something wrong?” he asks Noct, and then turns to Iggy, whose mouth twists into a smile.

“No, Prompto,” the hand says, “Though your choice of wording may have lacked some tact, we understand that you are attempting to reassure us of your non-violent intention.” He looks sharply to Gladio and then to Noct. “Is that not so, gentlemen?”

Gladio gives a grunt which could possibly be an affirmative, while Noct snorts in that way Prompto knows means he’s actually laughing; and all is well once more.

“Well, Gladiolus, stand if you like, but don’t come to me later with stomachache,” Ignis warns before digging his spoon into his bowl.

This is the moment Prompto’s been waiting for. He watches intently yet covertly; mapping the hand’s motions in his memory for replication.

With a scooping motion, Iggy glides his spoon through the semi-liquid foodstuffs, then raises it to his lips. But before the hand puts the spoon in his mouth, he blows slowly over it several times.

A waft of steam raises from the food.

Ah, the temperature is not equitable then. Prompto files this away as the rest of the process unfolds.

Iggy opens his mouth, not so wide as to hurt his jaw, but not too narrow as to prevent the spoon and its contents from fitting comfortably inside. The spoon goes in and the lips close around it. Ignis’s eyes crinkle in what Prompto assumes is some variant of pleasure – satisfaction perhaps? – and, without opening his mouth, he slides the spoon out, devoid of food product.

Then there is a complicated process of chewing he can just about remember from L1, and small sounds of approval. Iggy swallows, sets down his spoon in the bowl, and picks up a square of papery cloth from where he placed it on his lap earlier, which he dabs against his lips.

A burst of laughter rings out from beside Prompto. He turns sharply to see Noct, who is doubled over his own bowl and _chortling,_ while Gladio watches Prompto with a mixture of amusement and… disgust?

“Jeez, kid, get a room.”

Prompto blushes. This time, the implant does function; a tiny readout in the corner of his vision which would be almost indecipherable without his visual enhancements, informing him his face has heated by 0.8 degrees.

“Sorry,” he apologises without knowing the reason. If they follow up on that and he makes an unsatisfactory guess he’ll be marked for reformatting. Apologies, especially unnecessary ones, suggested anxiety, humility, _shame_ – human emotions.

No. That wouldn't happen here. Noct isn't like the scientists. He's fairly certain - (81%) - that Noct won't impose sanctions. But the hand and shield? ...He doesn't have enough experiential data to complete those calculations yet.

“Prompto,” Iggy says, his tone somber. It stops Noct mid-laugh, and Gladio’s smile fades.

“Forgive the intrusion, but how did you usually receive nutrition at the facility?”

“Er…” Prompto hesitates, not because this information is classified – because probably everything he’s told them so far _must_ be – but because he's experienced enough of their reactions by now to anticipate a negative response.

“I… was fed twice daily,” he hedges.

“How?” Ignis pushes, his gaze too insightful for comfort.

Prompto swallows. He realises there’s quite a lot of saliva in his mouth. A fear response? Or possibly Pavlovian in relation to the amazing smell coming from his bowl.

Carefully transferring his bowl to one, barely-shaking, hand, he lifts the edge of his shirt to expose the scarred skin beneath.

“The port is gone now,” he explains quickly, “but my digestive tract is still fully functioning. At least… well, if everything else got fixed…”

“Everything but that chip in your damn head,” Gladio growls – actually _growls_ – like a daemon.

“Prompto,” Ignis sets down his bowl on a nearby table and crosses the camp to squat in front of him. “If you’re at all malnourished, giving you complicated foodstuffs – especially those high in fat – may cause multiple organ failure and quite possibly death.”

“Oh.” Prompto tries to consider why Ignis would be telling him this, but the data takes a while, and several re-classifications, to compute.

“Oh, dude, no need to worry about that! We’re only fed a complete, nutritionally balanced diet. We’re expected to maintain optimal physical capacity. Starving us would be, like, counterproductive, y’know?”

“Oh. Well, I suppose that is a relief—”

“Like, I guess some L1’s do malfunction, before we progress to L2 phase and get the ports, but that isn’t on our technicians, we just… refuse to ingest our nutrition in the allotted timeframe...”

Prompto notes that the camp is very quiet, and is grateful that they are allowing him to explain without all the interruptions from his report that morning.

“Not that I blame any of us! The nutritional cubes are totally bogus; like, they taste super gross, y’know? And they’re kind of dry but also slimy? I don't know how they manage it. But if you don’t eat then you get sanctions, and who knows how long _those_ will last.”

“So, they only starved the _kids_ ,” Gladio snarls, “Good to know.”

“All the nutrition is carefully balanced.” Prompto thought it bore repeating. Why did these guys think maintaining MTs to the best standard was in some way lacking in care? It’s pretty much the only way the scientists treat them well.

“It’s a deficit-zero product. Our basal energy requirement is calculated precisely to balance the day’s scheduled programming.”

“Zero deficit? Are you saying you produce no—” Ignis coughs delicately and looks away, “...bodily waste?”

“No MT does after reaching L2,” Prompto said with a shrug. “I mean, aside from the days they mess up the formula, but even then it takes a week or so to build up enough liquid waste to have them bother connecting the port.”

“You gotta be kidding me…”

Prompto looks to Noct, and sees that his friend is staring at him with that ‘Look’ again: the one that’s incredulity, and pity, and anger all in one.

“I’m out,” Gladio says, throwing up the hand that doesn’t hold his dinner and glaring at Ignis, like it’s his fault. “I didn’t sign up to teach a Six-grown adult how to wipe it’s ass.”

“Gladiolus, you are not helping,” Ignis says, but his tone is weary.

“Uh,” Prompto cuts in before the argument that is brewing can spill over, “I know how to perform basic bodily functions, dude. No-one needs to teach me how to take a dump.”

Noct’s face dissolves into glee again, and he laugh-snorts into his meal.

“Quite,” Ignis says, pushing up his glasses, the eyes behind which are sparkling merrily. He stands and returns to his chair.

“Perhaps we can return to our meal in peace, then.”

Prompto nods vigorously. He’s had quite enough of discussing his _business_ , thank you very much.

The spoon feels awkward in his hand, but he gamely recalls Ignis’s method, and puts it into action.

Close-to, the food smells almost dizzyingly delicious, and his readout informs him the elapsed time has allowed some of its heat to dissipate to non-damaging levels. He opens his mouth, flinching as the metal clacks briefly against a tooth, re-adjusts, and sticks the portion inside.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one's so short, but I needed a bridging section between the different POV! It's always good to check in on Noct anyway ;) T x

“He’s crying again,” Noctis stage-whispered to the others as it became increasingly clear they’d lost Prompto to the first real Astrals-damned meal of his life.

Prom’s eyes were fixed on his rapidly-emptying bowl, eating with a fierce sort of dedication that Noct usually put into beating a video game boss. His tears were running unchecked down his cheeks, in danger of filling the bowl faster than it emptied. Noct wasn’t even sure Prom noticed.

“Let him process,” Ignis said, calmly. “It may be a little overwhelming, but I believe our guest has earned a moment or two of privacy.”

“This is all-the-way fucked up,” Gladio grumbled into his own bowl. He’d at least stopped glowering and hovering over Noctis like Prom would go through with his earlier accidental threat.

“Indeed.”

There was a tinny sound beside them and their attention sharpened on Prompto, who was staring at his curry-less bowl with a look of abject devastation.

“Yo, Specs, you got seconds?” Noctis asked, keeping his gaze on Prompto, whose head shot up to fix heartbreakingly hopeful eyes on their chef.

Ignis frowned thinly and shook his head.

“Sadly not. I do however have something I hope you will find just as satisfactory.”

Saying that, Ignis went to the ice-box, returning shortly with a square of pastry on a plate.

“Baklava,” he explained to a bewildered Prompto. “A sweet dessert is customarily served after the main course. Though it is usually reserved for after the evening meal I think today we can make an exception.”

Ignis picked up the fork and carefully demonstrated; separating a segment of sticky, honey-slathered goodness with the fork’s edge and spearing it with the tines. Placing the fork and its offering back on the plate, he turned it so that the handle was pointing toward Prompto.

Prompto’s eyes were wide, though as much with trepidation as with awe. He gave Ignis his empty bowl and took the plate with hesitant hands, then picked up the fork, staring at the portion on it for a moment.

The three of them were watching Prom with just as much scrutiny as he had Ignis earlier on. Noctis felt bad about laughing now, and wondered about all the other things they took for granted that Prom might not know about.

He realised he was holding his breath and let it out slowly, so as not to disturb his friend.

Was he just going to look at it all night or—

Prompto put the fork into his mouth.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo this chapter took a bit longer to get out because I finally had to make a decision on where abouts in the story this fic sits, which then took me down a rabbit hole of lore reading and general fandom diving.  
> *Spoilers* I guess from here on out!
> 
> The chocobros meeting of Prompto happens a few days after they first meet up with Cor at the Tomb of the Wise, but he doesn't immediately send them to the Keycatrich Trench for the second royal arm. Instead they head back to the Prairie Outpost/Hammerhead to train, earn some cash, and wait for Cor to gather intel.

“I think you broke him,” Gladio said a few minutes later. He stooped in front of the MT, waving a hand in front of its unseeing eyes.

 _At least they weren’t red any_ _more. That shit was plain creepy._

“Give him a little longer,” Ignis said, “I think—”

The Niff stirred, and Gladio stepped half a cautious pace back, his great sword a fraction away from materialising in his readied hands.

With a deliberateness and economy of movement that was classic military, the MT removed the fork from its mouth and placed it on the plate. It chewed – its expression both completely unreadable but as open as a book – and swallowed.

There was another long moment’s pause, then the MT put the plate on the table beside them, before slowly getting to its feet.

“Excuse me,” it said, the words as precise and impersonal as cut marble. It bowed its head formally in thanks, hands rigidly at its sides, and then retreated to the edge of the Haven, where it stood, soldier-stiff and fists clenched, staring out over the wilderness.

“Uhh, Prom?” Noct called, but got no reply.

“I think it best to leave him be for a while,” Ignis said.

Gladio silently agreed. Human or not, the... _whatever_ had been through a wild couple of hours.

They tidied up the camp while they waited. The remainder of the MT’s dessert sat carefully to the side while they broke down the tent and the rest of their gear.

They’d talked about it earlier, while the MT was still inactive. Their plan hadn’t, and couldn’t, change just because of their new “guest”, as Ignis insisted on calling him (and Noctis had got _real_ upset the one time Gladio had called it their prisoner).

Noct’s probably be even worse, Gladio considered, if his shield didn’t adjust his mindset to something a little more... humanising when talking about his _bestie_.

” _He’s my_ best friend.”

Gladio tried not to glare too hard at the back of the MT’s head.

Okay, he could admit to himself, in the privacy of his own head at least, that one had stung, just a little.

They had to complete their job and get back to the outpost to collect their reward before their supplies ran out. Deciding what to do with the MT could happen just as easily on the move as it did sitting still.

They were almost done when the Niff stirred, heaving a deep sigh and slowly letting it out before turning back to the camp. It— _His_ eyes widened at the change, and he quickly scanned the area in a way that Gladio distrusted. There was a sort of feral uncertainty to the MT that he wasn’t happy about; like he was ready at any second for fight or flight – and Gladio knew just which of those a Niff would choose in a pinch. Whatever pronouns you used, the guy was a weapon, trained for combat. Regardless of anything else, that kind of conditioning stuck in the blood.

 _Or maybe it burned away with the rest of the ichor last night_ , he reminded himself. _And you’ve seen that wariness before, in_ refugees _from Tenebrae. Stop being an asshole. He’s just a scared kid._

A scared, _extremely dangerous_ , kid... But a kid, nonetheless.

“You going to eat that?” he asked, pointing to the dessert, “‘cause if not I’ll take it off your hands.”

“You’ll do no such thing, Gladiolus,” Ignis said primly, picking up the plate as if to hold it out of reach, like Gladio was some kind of undisciplined mutt. “If Prompto would like to save his sweet for later I shall wrap it for the journey.”

Gladio huffed then glanced at the Niff, who was looking between them uncertainly.

“I-if you want it I don’t m—”

Fuck. If this was a bit the MT was playing he was sure as hell good at it. Guy looked like he was in physical pain even suggesting it.

“Nah, kid, I’m just ribbing you. Keep the damn cake for later, it’s too sweet for me anyway.”

Noct, coming up the path from the Regalia, grinned, and thumped the Niff lightly on his arm.

“See, told ya he liked you!”

Gladio tensed, but the arm-punch must have been a common thing back in their wierdass dreamy-weamy land (that Noct _still_ hadn’t done a good enough job explaining), and the Niff barely reacted to it more than a slight smile.

He rubbed at the area, even though Noct hadn’t put any force behind it, and it was heart-clenchingly clear he was doing so to remember the touch, nothing more.

 _Shit_ , he was good at this.

“Shuddit, princess,” he said gruffly, jerking his thumb in the direction of the Regalia. “Go get in the car.”

Noct flashed him a shit-eating grin and slouched away, calling for the MT to follow.

“The M—” Gladio began to call after them then cut himself off. He stole a glance at Iggy, who was watching him with a wry smile of his own, and took a breath.

“ _Prompto_ rides in the front.”

“Aw, c’mon, captain-hardass!” Noct bitched, swinging around but still walking, backwards, toward the car.

“No arguing!”

“I agree with Gladio, Noctis,” Iggy said, finishing wrapping the baklava and stashing it in the cool-box. “We have no idea how Prompto will respond to open vehicular travel, and I would much prefer avoiding any nausea-related incidents this close to his meal.”

Noct was too far away now for them to be coherent, but from the low level whinging it seemed their argument had won out.

Gladio gave his friend a grateful smile and carried the icebox to the car without being asked.

He didn’t want the MT being alone with Noct any more than he was already had been.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: some animals were harmed in the making of this chapter :S
> 
> I’ll try and post updates every Wednesday or so to keep me on some kind of schedule. Hopefully this means I’ll get the last few chapters written before we catch up to them! T x

“No.”

Noct is frowning at Gladio, who is frowning back at him after making his declaration. His arms are folded. Uncompromising.

“Come on, dude, you can’t leave him with nothing,” Noct says. “What if one of them sneaks past us and attacks him while we’re busy? I used our only Phoenix Down last night, if you don’t remember.”

Prom waits quietly while the three discuss him. He chews on his lip and tries not to pay attention to the uncomfortable feeling in his stomach (Nausea: he remembers from early L1 phase – after the first few injections).

“It’s a pair of garula, possibly three,” Ignis says. “We would be attacking them without Prompto’s assistance had we followed our original plan.”

“Yeah, and we might’ve got our asses kicked for it, or at least used up more potions than necessary.” Noctis is trying to plead to the hand’s fiscal sensibilities; a sound strategy, but it doesn’t seem to be working.

Prompto considers what he knows about garula from what little data is not on his hard drive. Large, only agressive on provocation, less stupid than they appear. He considers the prince and his retainers; does what basic math he can without the suit; adds in the distraction of having an armed, potentially aggressive unknown at their backs; adds in that declining armaments for himself is a better tactic than demanding something they’re reluctant to give…

“Um, I’m fine without a weapon,” he says. “The fight’s 83% in your favour anyways… plus if one gets past and attacks me I can outrun it easily,” he tacks on when the shield still glowers at him sceptically.

“That’s still 17% _not_ in our favour,” Noct grumbles.

“We’ll chance it,” Gladio says, fixing Prompto with that unnerving look again; like he’s Bethesia during one of Prom’s vivisections, seeing right into his brain.

Noct clearly wants to argue more, but he catches Iggy’s eye and clamps his mouth shut.

“Stay real far back, okay?” he says, when they’re close to the kill-zone. “If there’s any trouble, you run as fast as you can back to the Regalia, got it?”

“Y-yeah,” Prompto agrees, then stands, uncertain whether he should wait in any particular way as the three stroll toward their quarry. He eventually settles on an awkward parade rest.

Two garula turn into three, then four, and then six as another pair charge seemingly out of nowhere.

Prompto stands, able to admire three of Niflheim’s most wanted targets at work without the threat of imminent death to occupy his attention. Their form is precise, deliberate, practiced. Ignis shouts commands and Noct acts instantly, Gladio apparently able to be wherever he is needed, even without the prince’s ability to warp. It seems the fight with Prompto’s fellow MTs was an outlier; they are _good_.

Four garula are dead and they haven’t been at all pressed. Prompto updates his data set for future probablility mapping. The three circle the two remaining beasts, waiting for their moment.

Prompto’s so focused on the fight, and so used to his helmet warning him of incoming danger during simulations, that he doesn’t hear the coeurl until it’s nearly too late.

The lightest thud of paws dashing across the earth are is only signal and he’s diving to the side instinctively. He feels the air clip his back – the draught of the cat’s bulk as it speeds by – and springs upright, his feet bracing for a sprint.

The coeurl skids around, fixing mad eyes on Prompto. She’s equidistant between Prom and his new allies, who haven’t noticed the new arrival yet, already going in for the kill. It’s probably all the blood that’s drawn her; or maybe she’s a friend of the one last night, come to take revenge.

Prom thinks about shouting a warning, but the prince is dashing in to engage one of the cows, and any distraction now might lead to unnecessary injury. Besides, Prom isn’t lying when he says he doesn’t need a weapon.

The coeurl springs forward, aiming to pin him. Prompto turns himself to the side, arms blurring as he counters the swiping paws; he grabs, pivots, heaves, and the cat is sent head over tail, landing heavy in the dirt.

She springs up, looking dazed, and doesn’t immediately attack.

Prompto readies himself, but instead of pouncing, the beast’s whiskers begin to crackle and glow.

Prompto’s too close to get out of range in time so he goes on the offensive.

The lightning hits just before Prom reaches her, but he continues his dive, sliding feet-first beneath her, between her paws. She’s so surprised she doesn’t react instantly, or else Prom’s jugular would have been between her teeth. It’s just enough time for him to aim his blow.

“Sorry,” he grits out through shock-clamped teeth.

The punch lacks the usual force of a suit behind it, but Prom’s muscles and training are enough. His fist lands against the thoracic wall, an inch to the right of the sternum.

The coeurl shudders and collapses in an instant. Unfortunately, she collapses on top of Prompto.

The body has stopped twitching by the time Noct and his retainers arrive. Prom hasn’t, but the aftershocks have faded enough for his vision to have cleared.

“The fuck?” he hears Noct whisper.

Someone grabs a handful of quarter-ton, dead cat, and Prompto can breathe fully again as she’s lifted from him.

“Are you injured?” Ignis asks.

Prom’s ears are ringing and all his muscles are _very_ unhappy with his life-choices.

“I’m fine, no biggie,” he says (wheezes), and tries to stand. Noct offers him a hand, and keeps it under his elbow, holding him steady.

“Do they not breed any godsdamn self-preservation into you Niffs?” Gladio demands. He sounds angry. Prompto’s not sure why.

“ _Gladiolus_.” Ignis doesn’t sound happy either, but he’s frowning at the shield not Prompto, so Prom focuses on the main threat, who is standing a little too close for comfort right now.

Gladio’s shoulders are square, and his bare chest is shiny with sweat from their fight, but he’s breathing easy enough for Prompto to know he’s got plenty of stamina left to kick all kinds of crap outta him if Prom doesn’t deescalate. His pulse, already thumping as his heart tries to compensate for the lightning attack, begins to bound in a way that would have had this suit going nuts. The MT training in him is re-listing the shield’s weak-points and running through combat scenarios (not that retaliation is a possibility _at all_ ), but the tactician in him knows he’ll have to do as he always has done; put up, shut up, and wait until it’s over.

He feels Noct’s hand tighten on his elbow just a little, and wonders if the prince is also bracing for a fight, or preparing to stop Prom from running should Gladio decide he’s in need of physical sanction. He really wants to hope Noct won’t let the guy go too far.

“No, Iggy, he’s gotta hear this,” Gladio growls. “I’m not going to be responsible for keeping the kid alive if he’s not going to bother looking after himself. Who on Eos runs _at_ a sparking coeurl?”

“Are you all ok?” Prom asks (deflects). He needs to find out why the guy’s so pissed. Did he miss something and get one of them hurt? Shit. Is _Noct_ hurt?

He whips his head toward the prince, but even without a suit diagnostic he can see there’s barely a scratch on him.

Noct snorts out a frustrated breath. “ _We’re_ fine, dude. Why didn’t you run?”

Prom can’t help thinking they’re on two separate wavelengths here. “You didn’t look like you were in trouble,” he says, the statement a question. It’s pretty freaking insubordinate to question a superior, but he rides out the feeling. This is Noct, he’s never pulled Prompto up for giving him shit before.

Noct stares at him, then mutters a curse.

“I meant _you_ , ya doofus. If _you’re_ in trouble it’s okay to run. I, like, give you permission, or whatever.”

“Oh,” Prompto frowns, thinking this over, “…I wasn’t in trouble, though.”

“You took a ten kilowatt direct hit from an adult coeurl,” Iggy said. He is still frowning. “You’re lucky your heart didn’t stop. It’s a miracle you’re even conscious.”

“Nah, that only happens at, like, 27kw on a bad day,” Prom tries another smile but they’re still frowning, so he swiches to chewing nervously at his lips. It perhaps doesn’t help that he is still lightly smouldering from the attack...

Ignis and Noct are staring again. It doesn’t look like Gladio is going to sanction him but Prompto can’t get his body to understand that. The joints of his fingers ache, so he curls them around the cuff of his sleeve, extending one finger at a time. It doesn’t help.

“Iggs.”

They all turn to Gladio, who is crouched down beside the coeurl. He gestures to her side, where a Prompto-sized fist has left a dent in the ribcage.

“Heart stopped,” the shield mutters. “What’s that, like a two-, three-inch distance?”

“Holy shit,” Noct breathes, then turns to Prom, his smile wide. Awestruck.

“Dude, you are a _machine_.”

Prompto considers this.

“…Yes?”


	7. Chapter 7

They were headed for the Prairie Outpost but there was a problem.

“Here,” Iggy pointed on the map, spread on the hood of the Regalia.

Gladio was standing to the side, arms folded and boot tapping at the delay.

Noctis kept close to Prompto, a barrier between the shield and his best friend. He was still conflicted about the ‘Prompto nearly getting himself killed and then turning out to be a super freakin’ badass’ thing. Pissed, sure, but it was impossible not to be impressed when someone takes a monster out bare-handed in front of you.

He heaved an internal sigh. At least Gladio wasn’t half-way up Noct’s ass for a change, but it rankled more now it was happening to Prom than it ever had with him. Prom’d done nothing wrong except exist, and Gladio was being extra douchey about it.

Prompto was squinting at the red outline of the Norduscaean Blockade Cor’d marked out for them to avoid, his eyes flickering between it and the blob of the outpost. He was still surreptitiously massaging the ghost of pain out of his fingers, even though the potion should have fixed the fractures, thunder burn, and muscle fatigue there – _as well as the claw-gash along his frigging back that he’d not bothered to mention._

Noctis took another deep breath, and made a mental note in future to follow up when his best buddy assured them he was “fine”.

Something to think about later. Right now there was another, more pressing issue to deal with.

After a moment scrutinising the map, Prom’s shoulders relaxed, minimally.

“It’s a lot nearer than I’d like, but shouldn’t be a problem; as long as I don’t go any closer than the outpost,” he said.

“Is the Empire likely to come looking for you?” Gladio asked, frowning. They’d not considered it before, and even Noctis could appreciate that was a rookie, potentially fatal, mistake.

Prompto shook his head. “An incomplete MT isn’t exactly a high value asset, y’know? They’re not going to waste resources on retrieving me.” He sighed, mouth twitching downward, something clearly on his mind.

“It’s just... if I get too close to a base transmitter, it’s going to ping with _my_ transmitter and then they’re gonna be… _interested_.”

There was a pause.

“Your… transmitter,” Ignis deadpanned.

Prom nodded, a hand coming up to rub self-consciously at the metal protruding from the back of his neck.

“It’s latent programming; keeps track of all of us when we’re in the field. It’ll process my location and send a signal for me to follow to get back to base. My ID’s probably registered as missing or whatever by now so they might send someone for me if it flags.”

“ “For you to follow”?” Gladio echoed. “Does that mean it’ll trigger some kind of, what, kill-switch, or some shit?”

Prompto’s headshake was vigorous. “It’s meant to, but I never respond to their commands. It’s what makes me different to the others, y’know?”

“Are you certain? One-hundred percent?”

Noctis watched with a sinking feeling in his gut as Prompto’s reassuring smile faltered.

“…Er… like… maybe ninety-nine percent?”

Well, fuck. If there was one thing Noct knew better than anything else, it was if there was a chance shit would go down – even a 1% chance – then it would go down on him and his friends. Guaranteed.

“Is there any way to disable it?” Ignis asked after a moment of ominous silence.

Prompto’s frown cleared, his face breaking into a grin. “Sure! I just need some kind of electronic device with a screen and a universal lead, like a phone or computer or something; but one that’s preferably self-contained… no wireless signals,” he added at Noctis’s blank expression, “I can’t say for sure it won’t send a tampering alert direct to the nearest base otherwise.”

“Hmm, I’m not sure we have anything that would suffice,” Ignis considered, his look faraway as he mentally sorted through their inventory. “But the shop at the outpost might provide something... If not we can make a trip to Hammerhead and see what Cid might have in his workshop. I suggest we continue with our current plan for now; we have our reward to collect, after all.”

Gladio huffed, clearly not down with the idea, but didn’t come out with any of his own. He jabbed a finger toward Prompto.

“You’re still riding in the front.”

Noctis didn’t object this time.

~

Gladio wasn’t reading his book.

Sure, he had it open, he even occasionally turned a page for the look of the thing, but Noctis knew his attention was 100% on the back of Prompto’s head.

Noctis had been watching Gladio watch Prom for the past half hour; his own eyes almost closed – as if he was going to be able to sleep after the morning they’d had!

Prom’s own gaze had been fixed on the scenery since they set out, taking in everything with that same gut-punch wonder that he greeted every new sight and sound. Sitting to his diagonal, Noctis was able to see his face in profile; beaming smile and glittering, intelligent eyes. Occasionally he’d ask Ignis a question about something or other they’d just passed, and every time he turned to Specs, Gladio would tense up, ready to spring.

“Give it a rest, would ya?” Noctis growled after the most recent time. He pitched his voice low enough to carry only to the shield, knowing the sound of the engine and rushing wind would keep their conversation private.

Gladio frowned at the prince from over the top of his book.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he murmured, taking his cue from Noctis and keeping his voice down below the engine’s growl.

“Bullshit.”

Gladio sighed, closing his book. He didn’t bother keeping a note of the page, Noctis saw.

“I’m not going to stop watching your back, Noct,” he said, his tone firm but weirdly non-combative - for Gladio at least. “Or apologise for doing it.”

Ugh, he was trying to be _reasonable_. Noctis hated when people tried to reason with him. Like he was five years old again. Patronising _ass_. 

“I get you wanna watch out for me, but you can quit being such a dick about it.”

“He’s got a chip in his brain that tells him to kill Lucians, princess. You want me to chummy up to a killing machine? Let my guard down so he can shank you?”

“He’s had plenty of opportunities to “shank” all of us,” Noctis huffed. “You saw what he did to that coeurl. You think he couldn’t take you on even if you were 100% prepared?”

“Pfft, so he blindsided a cat, big deal. I could take your super-soldier boyfriend, no contest.”

Noctis’s face split in an incredulous grin.

“Dude, are you _jealous_ of Prompto?”

“Sure,” Gladio snorted, rolling his eyes, “I’m jealous of the robot virgin who cries over pudding.”

“Ohmygods you _are_ jealous,” Noctis grinned wickedly, “and don’t be mean, I bet you cried the first time you ate a cup noodle.”

“Godsdamn right I did, but that’s cup noodles. However good Iggy’s food is it doesn’t compare to that... and I’m _not_ jealous.”

“ _Sure_ ,” Noct said, dragging out the word with a smirk. “You get back to me on that one when you take out a coeurl with your bare hands.”

Gladio crossed his arms, glaring at the scenery for five whole seconds before returning to his Prompto vigil. “Whatever. I’m not going to stop being your shield just cause you’ve got a blind spot.”

Noctis took a few steadying breaths. He deliberately unclenched his fists and his jaw; slipping into his ‘asshole diplomats I’ve gotta be nice to’ persona. When he looked back at Gladio he saw the guy looked a little spooked. Yeah, guy knew Noctis was _pissed_. Good.

“Gladio, I’ve known Prompto for over ten years. I’ve spent basically a third of my life hanging out with him. He got me through my recovery after the marilith just as much as you, and Iggy, and Luna, and dad did. I know it must piss you off, that I had someone else to lean on other than you guys all this time, especially someone you knew nothing about. But that doesn’t mean you both weren’t there for me or your care meant any less. I know Prom’s a Niff, and I don’t know everything they did to him, but I _do_ know he wouldn’t hurt me. I trust him, I know you can’t, but trust _me_ , okay? You’re my shield and one of my closest friends; it’s your life I’m putting on the line as much as mine. I wouldn’t do that if I wasn’t certain.”

Gladio’s expression - a surly pout at the start of Noctis’s speech - had gradually morphed into something more solemn and serious by the end.

“I’m not gonna stop doing my job,” he said eventually, eyes fixed on Noctis’s, “...but I’ll tone down the aggro.”

Noctis held his gaze for a little while longer, then nodded, looking away. That was probably as close to an apology as he was going to get.

Galdio sighed and took up his book again, starting back several pages from where he’d been before.

Noctis decided to ignore him. He glanced at Prompto and saw he was in the same position as before, head turned toward the rushing scenery, but there was something off about his posture; a little too stiff to be truly relaxed... Was he blushing...?

Shifting his position as if he were simply getting more comfortable, Noctis glanced into the left-side mirror. Prompto’s gaze was lowered, eyes half closed, conflicting emotions screwing up his face into deep thought.

_Hmm._

Noctis lifted a knee and rested his arm on it, chin resting on top of that so his mouth was obscured, but so he still had half an eye on his best friend.

“Did you hear that, Prom?” he asked, making sure to pitch his voice just lower than the previous level he’d used with Gladio.

Prompto’s eyes snapped fully open, though the rest of his body didn’t show any reaction. He looked into the mirror and they locked eyes; Noctis’s curious, Prompto’s fearful.

“So, super hearing as well as super strength, huh? That’s pretty awesome, dude.”

Now Prom was _definitely_ blushing, but at least he was relaxing again. He gave a minute shrug, expression more wary and quizzical than outright scared: _No biggie...?_

“I’ll keep that on the down low for now, could come in handy, yanno?” Noctis tried to smile with his eyes - not something he managed most of the time. “Sorry about all that. Gladio’s an ass but he’s just looking out for me.”

Prompto’s gaze softened and he smiled into the mirror.

“And Gladdy _is_ _so_ totally jealous.”

Prompto snorted, quickly covering his mouth, but Ignis had noticed.

“Something amusing you, Prompto?” Ignis asked, keeping his eyes on the road.

“Uh, yeah. Sorry Iggs, I just, um, remembered something funny, is all.”

“Well, don’t keep us in suspense,” Gladio said, lightly nudging Prompto’s chair back with his knee. “What’s the joke?”

“You,” Noctis muttered, still keeping his voice at Prompto-only levels.

Prompto _creased_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one was a little late. I was going to post it as was, but it was only the first half and I decided it was a little too short! T x
> 
> P.s. As soon as Gladio and Prompto are friends you just *know* Gladdy's going to be challenging Prom to an arm wrestle! He's such a muscle otaku XD


	8. Chapter 8

Marshall Cor Leonis, the Immortal, is waiting for them at the rest area.

Waiting for Prompto.

“What the hell?” Noct hisses behind him, as Prompto steps hesitantly out of the vehicle.

The marshal – _ruthless, prodigy, eliminate on sight_ – looks him up and down with a tactician’s eye. His solid stance reminds Prompto of Gladio’s – though it’s more likely the shield learnt intimidation tactics from the best.

“The best” grunts – approval or disapproval, it’s impossible to tell (though there’s no way it’s anything other than the latter) – and jerks his head toward a metal container beside the parking lot.

“I secured us a room,” he says; a minimalist way of talking that skips right on past the niceties of introduction. Prompto is reminded sharply of his technicians. There’s no need to make pleasant with a machine, after all.

The sickness that’s been grumbling in his gut all day kicks up a notch, and he presses his arms protectively over the area, unable to stop himself despite it signalling his injury to any observant nearby enemies.

…He _hopes_ there aren’t any enemies nearby.

They approach the metal container – a caravan, he thinks it’s called – and the marshal opens its creaking door, but steps aside instead of entering.

Prom swallows back his fear, licking the moisture from his upper lip.

He isn’t in Niflheim anymore. Just because this place looks like a… a _big_ _pod_ , doesn’t mean he’s going to get shoved into darkness and connected up to half-a-dozen searingly-painful ports.

The marshal directs him to enter first, which Prom does, managing not to let his hesitance show in his movements. Noct follows after, but the Immortal and the shield stop outside, speaking in hushed, solemn tones. Prompto is too freaked out to listen in; his own heartbeat is too loud in his ears to hear over anyway.

Prompto realises Ignis hasn’t followed them. He must have missed the hand leaving on some task or other while his mind is occupied with thoughts of the Immortal.

Prompto takes the opportunity to scope out his surroundings, noting with disappointment that there are no other possible exits or particularly defensible areas.

The po— _caravan_ holds a pair of single beds recessed into the walls, and an area further in which looks like it can convert into more sleeping space; a food preparation area; a door through to a hygiene room; and a surfaced area surrounded by high stools.

The hygiene room is close by. Perhaps he can make a dash for it when things go bad; barricade himself inside? A smaller metal box inside an already small box.

Yeah, no. Terrible idea.

Gladio and the marshal enter, neither looking happy _at all_. The Immortal gestures toward the stools.

“Sit.”

Prom swallows back his bile and sits directly opposite the marshal. He’s on the far side of the caravan, the marshal, prince, and shield all between him and daylight. He takes a slow, measured breath. Holds it. Lets it out.

“You know who I am?” the marshal begins.

Prompto nods stiffly. “M-marshal Le-onis,” he confirms, “We have f-files.”

“What the hell, Cor?” Noct demands. His face is screwed up. Angry.

“Scienta alerted me to the situation this morning,” the marshal says, his eyes not leaving Prompto’s, not even blinking, “I came straight from the city outskirts.”

“Iris—” Gladio starts.

“—The situation is unchanged from my last report, soldier.”

Gladio snaps his mouth shut at the veiled reprimand and returns to attention, even if he is still glowering at Prom.

Iris Amicita is the shield’s younger sister – Prompto recalls – but she doesn’t have any notable military training, so Prompto knows nothing about her save the name. She must have survived the attack on the city. He’s glad. Perhaps Gladio will be less inclined to retaliate, given how behaviourally-focused human familial bonds appear to be.

It is meant to be a weapon he can wield, if he ever has the stomach for it. Pitting one life against another and taking tactical advantage over their compromised emotional state. A brutal, effective, _inhumane_ method of combat.

“I need to ascertain the level of threat to the Crown,” the marshal says to the prince, his voice level. Deadly. “Having an unknown appear in your retinue would be worrying enough, nevermind it being a Niff. I’m sure you can understand that, Highness.”

“ _His_ name is Prompto, and you’re scaring the shit outta him, Marshal,” Noct retorts. His voice is heavily laced with aggression. “You can at least not be a dick about it.”

Prompto has so far tried not to react to any of the discussion. The first rule of interrogation is to remain calm; to not give your captor any reason to get nasty. He _does_ flinch at “Niff” however – not the word but the latent, almost causal hatred behind it.

The marshal’s expression doesn’t change, but he does release his arms from their folded position, placing his hands palms-up upon the counter between them in a classic ‘open and friendly’ interrogation posture. The gaze he levels on Prompto is far from reassuring, however.

“My apologies. I understand you were instrumental in saving my subordinate’s life yesterday. For that, if nothing else, you deserve gratitude and respect.”

Prompto unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth, tries to swallow, and fails.

“Uhh... thanks?” he croaks.

The marshal makes another of those indecipherable grunting sounds, then finally takes his eyes off Prom to fix on the prince.

“You should go and get some dinner, Highness. This might take a while.”

Noct _snarls_. He strides around the counter and sits himself heavily on the remaining stool, arms crossing over his chest, and chin raising in what can only be perceived as a challenge.

Under the table, Noct’s leg rests against Prompto’s, and the connection is enough to settle his racing heart.

“Ask your questions,” Noct says. Demands. “We’ve got nothing to hide.”

The marshal heaves a very weary sigh, eyes meeting with Gladio’s, who has crossed to stand to Prom’s right – within grabbing distance – likely because of the prince’s proximity to the “unknown Niff”. 

The shield leans against the wall, arms folded.

The overly casual posture isn’t fooling Prompto, the soldier’s weight is on his back foot, ready to spring forward at any second.

“Alright,” the marshal says. Then his attention is on Prom again and Prom _really_ wishes it wasn’t.

A gentle nudge to his leg and he takes a deep breath. Noct is right: He has nothing to hide.

He relaxes.

“What’s your name?”

“Prompto Argentum.”

“Where are you from?”

“Niflheim. Ah, N-North Niflheim. First Magitek Production Facility, subunit Seminarium Theta.”

“I’m informed you’re a Magitek Unit, is that correct?”

“Yes... B-but I’m not complete. I’m only level two.”

The marshal nods. It’s clear he doesn’t need any further explanation as to what a level two is, which Prompto is relieved about. He doesn’t really want to go through all that again after the last time. Nothing so far seems to have been a surprise to the marshal – which, given his position within the military, is also not surprising – but Prom would rather not upset Noct again.

“What is your purpose in seeking out the Crown Prince? Do you have orders to befriend him, spy on him?”

“No.” Prom ignores Noct’s protest at the question. It’s a fair one, at any rate.

“I want to help,” he elaborates, trying to keep his gaze on the marshal steady, his facial expression as sincere as possible; as much as he wants to smile to lighten the mood. “Noct is my best— pretty much my _only_ friend. I kinda owe him, for all the years he spent hanging out with me.”

“ “Hanging out”,” the marshal repeats. Prompto swears he can see the man mentally writing everything he says down, “...This is in your shared ‘dream world’, the one you utilised to get close to the prince?”

It’s a justified assumption, but the insinuation hurts, just a little.

“It isn’t _my_ world,” Prom says, “it’s Pryna’s.”

“Pryna?” Gladio exclaims. “Like, Luna’s _dog_ , Pryna?”

“Yeah, she’s white and fluffy and totes adorbs,” Prompto gushes because, well, she _is_ totes adorbs, “It’s thanks to her I’m here now. She told me when it was time to leave.”

Noct sniggers loudly, but the marshal’s eyebrow is raised, expression unamused.

“I would hardly describe a Messenger for the Gods “totes” anything,” he says, coolly.

It takes a moment for Prompto to parse the marshal’s words, but the when he does he feels hot mortification run up his spine.

“A _WHAT!?_ ”

”You didn’t know?” Noct asks, his own eyebrows raising, “What did you think she was?”

Prompto knows he’s staring at Noctis. His mouth is hanging open as he tries to organise his scattered thoughts.

”I mean... I guess... I didn’t really think about it? Like, maybe she was just a magic wishing dog, like a fairy godmother or something?”

He heard Gladio muffle a snort and then mutter “ _magic wishing dog_ ” to himself. He notes the man stops smiling when Cor’s eyes flicker briefly over to him, and the shield’s smirk disappears back into soldierly blankness once more.

“ _Dog_ mother, more like,” Noct says, grinning.

”Noooooct!” Prompto tips his head back and slaps a hand to his face, dragging it downward in despair.

“Chill, dude,” Noct says, and puts a hand on Prom’s shoulder, “She’s cool with it. How many times did we play fetch with her? Think she’d give a crap that you didn’t act all worshipful around her all the time? I know I don’t.”

“If you say so, bud.” Prompto groans, and briefly drops his head into his hands. “...bet she thinks I’m such a dork.”

“Probably, but you _are_ a dork, so it’s no biggie... Oh yeah!” Noct says brightly, ignoring Prompto’s crisis. “Luna. We hung out with her a few times too, though not that much. If I write to her I’m sure she’d back me up about you.” He pauses, grimacing, “...She’s never mentioned you in our journal, though, so maybe she forgot too.”

“The Oracle was with you in this world?” the marshal frowns at Prompto, “and you went there often?”

“I mean, it’s not something I have any control over,” Prompto says, shrugging. “Even when I really want—“ he stops himself. His feelings aren’t relevant here; keep things factual, Argentum.

“…I never go there cause I want to. I just “wake up” and I’m in, like, Lestallum, or wherever.”

The marshal keeps his gaze for a long, uncomfortable moment, then looks to Noct.

“And you, Highness?”

“I never planned it,” Noct shakes his head, his words stubborn. Reproachful. “I didn’t even remember going after the first few months.”

“Your memories of that time were repressed?”

“Sure,” Noct’s shrug is easy this time. Deflective, “but they always came back when I was there... and when I saw Prom last night.”

“And you never considered that you could be under the influence of Niflheim magics?” the marshal’s tone grows hard. Reproving.

“No, Marshal, I’m a complete moron and told Prompto all our state secrets,” Noct drawls. Heavily sarcastic.

“This is serious—”

“Jeez, Cor, it was a joke,” Noct huffs, sitting back with his arms folded. “I’m not a total idiot. I was in a clearly magical world with a kid who didn’t even pretend to look anything but Niflheimr. I planted enough misinformation the first couple’a months there was no chance we wouldn’t have noticed if Prom was spying —whether you knew it or not,” he turns to Prompto, face softening into a concerned frown, “It wouldn’t have been your fault if the whole thing was an Imperial scam.”

Prompto swallows thickly, and keeps the bile down as best as he is able. His whole body is cold, like hypothermia resistance training, and tingling like he’s still suffering the after effects of the coeurl’s thunder.

“I… I didn’t even _think_ …” he chokes out.

“Not your fault buddy,” Noct says, placing a hand on his shoulder again and squeezing it gently. His attention returns to the Immortal.

“Look, Marshal, I’ve been giving glory- and gil-seekers, and diplomats the run-around since I was three years old. My first nanny tried to _kidnap_ me for Astrals’ sake. I was careful. I swear it.”

The marshal huffs out a breath, still looking unimpressed. “You still should have—”

“Should have, what?” Noct demands, hotly, “Told somebody? I _did_. For _months_. No-one believed me. I had to look out for _myself_.”

The marshal and the prince glare across the table at each other for a long, tense minute.

Prompto takes a few, careful breaths.

The marshal, seemingly, decides to let the matter go, because he’s suddenly moving on.

“Gladio tells me you punched a coeurl’s ribcage from a distance of approximately three inches, whilst afflicted with shock, hard enough to dent the ribcage and stop the heart.” He says it as a statement, and Prompto’s unsure if he’s meant to respond.

“...Yes?” They all seem weirdly hung up on this part. Prompto supposes this isn’t something a human is able to do.

“You weren’t wearing a suit at the time.”

“No.”

“So, you were under the effect of no enhancements, save for your own physical attributes?”

Prompto nods again.

“Detail these physical enhancements for me.”

Prom wets his lips – _tries_ to, but fails, his mouth dry – and clears his throat with just as little success.

“All MT units are produced from a single human genome,” he says, careful to balance the science stuff to the level of understanding of his audience, “Problem is, the Starscourge doesn’t jam well with humans; it burns them up too quick for them to be any use as soul-frames for the suits. There’s some whole thing about Ego too that I don’t really understand... So Besithia combines the embryos with beast DNA.”

Finally, he says something that shocks the marshal. His voice caught on the scientist’s name, but he’d pushed through it well enough they might not have even noticed.

“You’re telling us you’re part-monster?” Gladio demands.

“Yeah, but I’m only, like, _mostly_ human,” Prompto tries for a joke, but, given their stern expressions, it fails to land.

“To be clear, you’re talking about Research Chief Verstael Besithia?” the marshal says, “He oversees the MT project?”

“ “P-project Deathless”,” Prompto nods, masking his wince. He doesn’t like thinking about the Scientist, ever.

“Well that’s not a creepy name, at all,” Gladio rumbles sarcastically.

“Dude,” Noct whispers. He seems more awestruck than disgusted, thank the Astrals, “Do you know _what_ monster?”

“He splices each batch with something different, trying out for the best match,” Prom says, “The first few subjects were the big guns, y’know? Behemoths, Iron Giants, and such. They were crazy strong but also, like, _crazy_ crazy. Uncontrollable. They had to be incinerated.”

“So, what about you?” Noct presses.

“My series is N-iP01357.” Prompto looks down at his hands, where he’s been holding them in his lap, and hesitantly raises them to rest on the countertop, palms up like the marshal. His barcode hasn’t burned away with the other additions; a stark reminder of what he is. He catches Noct and the others staring at it sometimes, their disgust clear.

“The Scientist - _Besithia_ \- decided just using monsters creates unstable, uncooperative product, so he added in a second, er… domesticated animal after his first dozen batches.”

“Domesticated?” Gladio huffs. “What, like a dog or something?”

Prompto can feel himself flushing. He shrugs and shakes his head, ducking his eyes away from the marshal’s. The Immortal hasn’t spoken, but he hasn’t stopped with that Look since Prompto began talking.

His guts churn.

“But what—” Noct begins again. No doubt frustrated at Prompto’s clear evasiveness.

“Naga,” Prompto says the word quickly, expelling it with his breath. He still can’t look at them.

“…and chocobo,” he mumbles after an expectant pause.

It’s not like he’s _embarrassed_ by it. It’s just, he knows not everyone, the prince included, understands just how awesome the birds are, and he _knows_ he’s going to get shit for thi—

Noct explodes; literally doubles over the counter, clutching his sides, laughing so loud it echoes around the camper.

Prom hasn’t heard him laugh like that in years.

Gladio is laughing too, but in that ‘I definitely have something in my throat and I’m just trying to clear it’ military kind of cough that Prom sees at the base amongst the humans.

The marshal… well he’s not _not_ smiling. His face has that ‘solid’ look of someone doing their best not to change their expression.

“You don’t look much like a naga,” he says (and Prompto very much picks up on the implication of leaving chocobos out of that sentence, thank you very much). Noct does too, and creases over again.

“The— _Besithia_ doesn’t want to preclude the opportunity of using magitek units for espionage,” Prompto explains. He knows he sounds defensive, wincing at the insubordination of it, and dials his tone back to neutral. “He keeps us looking human as much as possible. The monster attributes are mostly internal, like stamina, musculoskeletal improvements, resistances…”

“What part of you is a snake then?” Gladio asks, his hand still doing a poor job as hiding his grin.

“My muscles,” Prom says, stiffly. He ignores the innuendo. The dossiers have never indicated the shield is so _juvenile_. “Serpent musculature is far more efficient than human. I have a much higher muscle density for my build and weight than a human.”

“That how you pulled off that close-range punch?” the marshal asks.

Prompto nods.

“And the shock resistance.”

Prompto nods again.

“Whoooa,” Noct says, “You’re, like, superhuman, Prom.”

Prompto manages to twist a half-smile at his friend, and relief wars with the nausea in his stomach.

“Is that… okay?” he asks hesitantly.

Noct turns to him fully and snatches up his hands. “Absolutely. Dude, you’re like, a super-soldier. What those Imps did to you was messed up, but you gotta make the best of it, you know? With you at my side we’re gonna be unstoppable!”

Prompto can’t help beaming at that, blushing fully now under his friend’s admiration. He’s never considered it a good thing that he’s basically a human-monster-beast DNA milkshake, but if his best bud has no problem with it then maybe he has less to worry about than he thinks.

“Thanks man. I really thought it was gonna be all pitchforks and burning at the stake kinda deal,” he chuckles. “I didn’t think anyone’d accept a freak like me.”

Noct’s face goes stern. “We can turn into light and warp through space, and we fight using weapons that we _literally_ pull out the air,” he says, “Iggy is a walking encyclopaedia and I’m pretty sure has to be at _least_ a little bit psychic. And have you _seen_ Gladio recently? We’re _all_ freaks here, man.”

“I resent that,” Gladio says, not sounding like he resents it in the slightest.

Prom can feel his eyes prickling with tears and he’s about to say something that’ll probably be hella embarrassing, but the marshal is rapping his knuckles on the countertop for attention.

“Save the mushy stuff for after the interrogation, if you would, Highness.”

Noct huffs and rolls his eyes, but he lets go of Prompto’s hands and they both turn back to the marshal.

“Going back to your barcode,” the marshall says, “From what you’ve said, the top sequence is your… batch number?” He waits for Prompto’s nod then continues, “So the bottom sequence is your individual identifier?”

“My production code... my d-designation,” Prompto trips over the word; he always does unless he concentrates, though he’s unsure why.

“—05953234.”

“If that’s what you were called at the base, then who gave you the name “Prompto”?”

Prompto stares at the marshal mutely. His mouth hangs open, ready to give an answer he doesn’t have.

“I… I don’t remember—” he starts.

And then he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh nooo, is Prom going to get a /flashback/? I'm certain it will be in no-way traumatising for him or anyone else involved... *^_^*
> 
> (Also, I couldn't decide between naga for the story tie-in, or chocobo for the lols, so I just went with both!) XD T x


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, I actually merged two chapters here (in case you were wondering why the chapter count went down!) cause it was the same POV and it was annoying me that it broke up the pattern... so please enjoy your double-dose of trauma! :D T x

They were all watching the MT fumbling to answer Cor’s question when he suddenly froze, his breath catching in his throat. Then his whole body began to tremble, and his face – which had paled dramatically at first – rapidly turned a nasty grey-green.

“Bathroom!” Gladio barked, and thank Six Noct was on the ball, because barely a second after the prince’d half-dragged, half-thrown the Niff into the caravan’s crappy little cubicle and pushed him to kneel beside the bowl, than the MT was spewing Iggy’s finest curry into it.

It went on for a while, and was followed by a prolonged bout of dry-heaving, interspersed between gasping, wrenching sobs that didn’t seem to be stopping any time soon.

Noct was hovering over him, looking uncomfortable and awkward in a way Gladio was _definitely_ going to tease him about later. The Niff was getting worse though, his breathing erratic and painful to hear.

Cor gave Gladio a meaningful look, but even without that he knew he had to step in and get Noct away from the potential threat. At least he probably wasn’t going to have to do too much persuading this time, given how unsettled Noct was.

He unfolded his arms and crossed the short distance to Noct’s side, where the prince was hovering over the MT uncertainly.

“Gimme some room would ya,” he said, jerking his chin back toward to kitchenette.

Noct flashed him a distrustful glare –which, _yeah_ , fair enough – and opened his mouth to object.

Gladio needed to unstick his charge before Noct doubled down and refused to budge. He held up his hands in front of him, palms out, and dropped his shoulders to reduce his threat level, slapping a sincere but serious frown on his face.

“I’m going to help him. I promise.”

It wasn’t like Gladio was lying; they weren’t going to get any answers out of the Niff until he’d calmed down.

Noct’s ruffled feathers settled, and he deflated somewhat. He threw the MT a look of concern but allowed Gladio to ease him aside until he was out of the bathroom completely.

Gladio took a breath, then hunkered down beside the MT. He made sure to stay on the balls of his feet, ready to spring away from any sudden attack should all this fuss be a smokescreen. A _damn good_ smokescreen, but nonetheless. Cor wouldn’t ever let him live it down if a Gladio got himself ganked in a camper toilet.

He focused on the target, and softened a little despite himself. The Niff was a mess.

He still hung off the toilet bowl with one arm, half-holding himself up as he scrunched his whole body into a foetal hug. His scrawny chest heaved with each stuttered breath, as snot and tears ran down his blotchy face. His whole body still shuddered, his eyes so wide you could see the bloodshot whites all around the sky-blue irises – a nasty throwback to when Gladio’d first seen them the night before.

“Hey, kid,” Gladio made sure to soften his voice, like he was trying to gentle a spooked chocobo (which: _hah!_ More true than they’d known. Who’d’a figured?).

Gladio didn’t smile – he was pretty sure that would just freak the guy out at this stage – but he made sure his frown looked more sympathetic than threatening.

“Listen to me, ok? You’re having a panic attack. You heard of those? No? Well it’s a pretty normal, _human_ , reaction when shit gets a bit too much to deal with. I’m guessing you’re feeling pretty crappy right now but I promise you, you’re gonna feel better soon, ok?”

Gladio had inched closer during his chat and now rested his hand very gently on the Niff’s knee; grounding him.

_Why was he surprised that the trembling body beneath his palm was warm?_

“Ok. So first thing we gotta do is get your breathing working right. That’s actually pretty simple, you just gotta follow my lead, ok? Watch me and do what I do, see? In for four, out for eight. In... one, two, three… that’s it. Now out… In… Out. That’s it. Use your whole chest, nice and deep… You’re a natural, kid.”

Gladio smiled just a little, giving the guy an encouraging nod. His breathing was becoming a little more focused but he was still clearly struggling with something big. It was kind of pathetically endearing the way he hung on Gladio’s words; focused on him with those wide, watery eyes like a drowning man fixes on a distant lighthouse.

“Good, you got this... Next, we’re going to get that heart-rate down. Still breathing nice and deep? Ok.”

From his position by the door, Gladio was just about able to lean back far enough to snag a cushion from what passed for a couch in this camper. It was a lumpy, shitty excuse of a thing, but it would do.

“Here,” he thrust the cushion toward the kid, waiting with a deal more patience than he felt until it was taken. “Go ahead and hug that,” he instructed, mimicking the gesture until he was cautiously obeyed. “You feel that? What’s it feel like?”

It took a long while for the kid to respond. “S-soft?” he said eventually, voice barely a croak. He looked terrified that his answer might be wrong.

“Yeah, nice and soft, huh?" Gladio let his smile widen. _See? Nothing to be afraid of_. “What’s it smell like?”

On his next mandated inbreath, the kid focused on the cushion, his brows knit in concentration.

“What’s the smell remind you of?” Gladio pressed after a pause.

“…N-nutrition cubes…?”

Gladio kept his smile fixed. The kid’s food stank like mould and cigarette ash? That was… _Fuck_ … Something to dwell on later.

“Good. Yeah. Good going,” he said instead, seeing the tense shoulders slackening just a little. “Now—”

“Aevis,” the kid blurted, as if he’d had to force the word out from behind his tightly knotted throat.

Gladio looked over in confusion to Noct, who shrugged. The prince hovered nearby, but he wasn’t actively trying to get closer to them, so Gladio turned his attention back to the target.

“I don’t—”

“It was Aevis,” the kid said, and stopped to gag on the words, “…He named me.”

Then the floodwaters broke.

Aevis, Gladio and the others came to understand, through a frantic babble of hysteria, is – was – an L1, like Prompto is— had been; just a scrawny kid of what the three had discovered from their questions earlier that day was the grand age of five or six years old.

Aevis loves birds. Well, the idea of birds at least. He’s never seen one before, none of them have.

Telum is serious, and knows what they are and what they are made for despite the group’s lack of cognitive development. _Telum means weapon— though you probably know that, right?— shit, I’m so bad at this. Sorry, sorry, I’msosorry._

Brevis is 0.02 imperial units smaller than the others.

Laetus sees the bright side of everything – _like he doesn’t even mind nutrition cubes, man – how fucked up is that?_

Prompto.

Prompto is…

Prompto is the best runner of their group. Fast. Faster than the simulator. So, Prompto. Aevis calls him that. Or maybe it was Laetus? Nah. No. Definitely Telum.

They talk during sanitation, when the noise of the hoses drowns out their whispers. They share nutrition cubes in clandestine handovers when one of them is on sanctions. They develop a code of knocks that can transmit though the metal of their pods, to let each other know that they aren’t alone in the dark.

Then the scientists find out.

There are sanctions. So many sanctions. Days without light, or heat, or food. Protracted round after round of excruciating questioning: _What is your designation?_ **_What is your designation?_** Pain. Unimaginable. Worse than the viv’s. Beyond their tolerance tests. Screams rip throats to shreds.

Laetus stops taking his nutrition first. Then they all do. They sit in rooms with meals piled high, steaming, delicious, _real godsdamn food, yanno_? – **_Tell us your designation and you can have as much as you want_** – rotten, poisoned, laced with Starscourge. Vomiting. Crying. Guts twisting into barbed-wire knots.

Telum reformats the easiest. Then Brevis. Prompto watches as Laetus collapses. Neither he, or his brothers, or the scientists move to help him. His skeletal body convulses for a while, and then grows still. They drag his cooling body away by a leg for incineration.

Prompto stares at his nutrition that evening and doesn’t eat. He stands in his pod and thinks about being dragged away by the leg and incinerated. Eventually he sleeps, and Pryna is there for the first time. Then Noct...

In the morning it’s… not so bad. He gives his designation without waver; obeys every command, even when they test him with self-harmful orders. He stops crying. Stops all emotions. He doesn’t react when they drag Aevis away – kicking, screaming, begging for mercy – or when Aevis returns with mute, dead-eyes, and no more desire to fly.

Things get better after that. Noctis is there.

The attention on Prompto and the remaining malfunctioning L1s fades.

Sanctions are lifted… eventually.

And Prompto… forgets…

~

Gladio swallowed past the lump in his throat, and could practically feel the saliva fizzling away when it hit the raging inferno in his gut.

Distantly he knew it could all be a lie, made to endear Prompto to them and make them drop their guard, but he couldn’t help the pity and white-hot rage that suffused him.

The kid was babbling more nonsense; mostly apologies and self-blame, and the occasional lapse into numb repetitions of his designation, which had been a constant throughout his story. He’d been crying non-stop, though it was mostly dry sobs by now; unsurprising, given how much fluid he must’ve lost. His hands were balled up at his eyes, like he was a godsdamned toddler; and there was no nuance to his tears, just raw, bottomless grief.

Gladio huffed a steadying breath through his nostrils – not missing the way the kid _flinched_ – and came carefully forward, until he was right up against Prompto and the toilet bowl. He wrapped his arms around the kid’s torso, pulling him slowly but tightly into his chest. He was grateful he’d chosen to wear a t-shirt today, because after a few seconds it was coated in tears, and snot, and what remained of the vomit that stuck around the kid’s mouth and chin.

Prompto accepted the hug more willingly than Gladio would have expected, but then again he’d got two freaking decades of comfort and affection to catch up on.

Gladio’d never really considered the phrase ‘touch-starved’ before, but knew this was a textbook example. The kid flung to him with an intensity that went beyond simple neglect.

He transferred a hand to Prompto’s head, carefully massaging the disgusting locks, while the other hand rubbed circles over his back.

“You were a kid,” he said, making sure his voice was firm and steady, above question. “You were a godsdamned kid, Prompto, and you’ve got nothing to apologise for.”

“H-how could I forget them?” Prompto wailed softly, utterly broken. His hands were contracting back and forth around Gladio’s poor t-shirt, griping tightly and loosening, like he was trying to squeeze out the pain.

“They’re my _brothers_. I l-love them. And I j-just, _forgot_.”

Gladio tried to think of something else to say that didn’t sound trite. It wasn’t like he could empathise; none of their experiences came _close_ to what this poor kid had endured. Even losing dad...

 _Nope. Shut that door, Amicita._ Not _the time._

“In the military it’s called “Dissociative Amnesia”,” Cor said.

Gladio tried not to let his surprise show in his body, knowing it would translate directly to the upset boy in his arms. Cor’d ghosted forward without Gladio even noticing, and was now crouched down at their side, just inches away in the cramped bathroom. Gladio hadn’t even noticed, too caught up in comforting the kid.

Whether Gladio was successful at hiding his failure or not, Cor didn’t comment.

“It’s a coping mechanism of the brain; a result of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder,” the marshal continued. “Sometimes – especially when we’re too young to fully regulate our emotions, or our response to traumatic events – we take our memories of those events and we pack them tightly away, where they can’t hurt us. Those memories are like a rabid coeurl; if you just let it run loose it would shred everything it could get its claws into, until your mind was destroyed; so you chain the coeurl up and you lock it away where it can’t hurt you. Sometimes the coeurl stays chained up forever, but other times something happens to let it out. Another similar event can remind you of that time and the chain can snap, or you get to a point in your life where you can visit the cage and look at the coeurl without it hurting you. You can do that so you can understand how it got there in the first place, or how you can let it out without it running wild and destroying you... But until you’re ready to face it, it’s okay to shut the door and keep it locked away.”

Gladio watched in mute shock as Cor lifted a hand and rested it on the top of Prompto’s head, ruffling his hair as much as he was able, under the circumstances.

“You’ve got a hell of a lot to deal with right now, kid. If you need to, you go on and chain that coeurl back up again. One day, when you’re ready, I’ll help you face it.”

Prompto heaved a few shallow, shuddery breaths. His head turned and he peeked up over Gladio’s arm to squint a raw eye at the marshal.

“0595...”

“ _Prompto_.”

“…P-Prompto,” the kid said, almost shyly.

A glass of water appeared in Gladio’s vision. People _really_ needed to stop sneaking up on him right now.

“Hey, bud,” Noct murmured, “Do me a favour and drink this, ‘kay?”

Prompto hesitated for barely a second before pulling away from Gladio only enough to be able to accept the drink in a shaking hand, draining it in several quick gulps.

Noct took the glass and immediately shoved a second one into Prompto’s hand.

The prince’s face was a grim line; a granite solidity to his gaze that Gladio was impressed-, and more intimidated by than he would ever let on.

“We’re done with questions,” Noct said, glaring at Cor.

The marshal snorted, managing to convey in a raised brow just what kind of a monster Noctis thought he was that he’d carry on the interrogation after this upset.

Noct’s responding frown gave him all the answer he needed.

They got Prompto’s face washed and him into another of Noct’s t-shirts not currently covered in disgusting bodily fluids. Then they settled him in one of the beds, tucked up with as many blankets as Gladio could find. The kid'd been reluctant to get rid of his human hugging aide, but eventually gave in when Noct came to sit at his side. It didn’t take long after that before Noct was up on the bed beside him, Prompto’s head resting on the prince’s thigh and Noctis propped up against the headboard.

This time neither Cor nor Gladio protested at the proximity.

“Iggy’s going to give you hell for sleeping in that position,” Gladio said, giving Noct a weak, teasing grin.

All he got in reply was a rude gesture.

Ignis himself entered the caravan a few minutes later, a tray of sandwiches in his hands.

By that point, the pair were already asleep.

The three of them ate at the counter while Gladio related an abridged version of events to Iggy. Then Gladio went outside and found a tree to punch for a while.

It didn’t help.


	10. Chapter 10

When Prompto wakes it’s to an uncomfortable sensation that, whilst rare, he’s long since learned to ignore. Instead, he lays for a while, enjoying the feeling of soft bedding around him.

Someone must have messed up the nutrition calculations at some point in the last week. He hopes he’ll get connected up soon, so that the dull pain in his bladder can recede and he can go back to sleep.

His eyes snap open.

No one is going to connect him up. Ever again.

Which means… Prompto’s gotta pee.

But that isn’t his only problem. He’s lying, confined in a cocoon of blankets, and... there’s an arm… wrapped around his chest…

Prompto freezes, but his body rises and falls with more than just his own halted breaths. If he strains he can see a mop of black hair above him, Noct’s face shrouded beneath it. The prince’s eyes are closed, downturned mouth open fractionally as he breathes deep and slow. There’s a faint crease in his brow still, but his body is loose, the muscles relaxed in slumber.

Prompto begins to panic.

...Quietly, so as not to wake Noctis.

“Sleeping beauty awakes.”

Gladio is sitting at the counter, one ankle resting on the other knee and the corresponding elbow propped on that; a book in his hand. It doesn’t look like any kind of military text or engineering manual Prompto has ever seen.

He feels his face flush as the memories of his earlier actions and his current predicament combine.

Gladio’s own face is a lot softer than it has been previously. He smiles, in a similar way to how he often looks at Noct; most noticeably when he’s “giving him shit”, as Noct puts it.

“Hey,” Prompto mumbles, quiet enough that he hopes the prince won’t be disturbed. He starts trying very carefully to extricate himself from the blankets.

“You don’t need to get up,” Gladio says, his voice not nearly as quiet as Prompto’s. “You’re not bothering anyone, being there.”

“Uhh, thanks,” Prompto says, and means it; he appreciates being reassured of his actions, especially when everything is still so uncertain and new, “But I kinda, um… I need to…”

Gladio’s face twists into a smirk. “Thought you didn’t need any help with that stuff?” he drawls.

Yeah, _definitely_ giving Prompto shit.

“Duuude,” Prompto manages to whine quietly. Above him, Noct doesn’t even stir.

Gladio rolls his eyes and marks his page in the book by folding down a corner – _definitely_ not a military text then, not if he doesn’t fear sanctions. He gets up and crosses the small space between them, tugging off a few blankets until Prom is free and then scooping Noct up into his arms like he weighs nothing at all.

Prompto scrambles quickly out and Gladio deposits the prince back onto the bed, laying down properly this time.

Prompto watches as the shield covers Noct with some blankets, and sees the brief flash of affection tugging the corner of the man’s lip; almost slight enough to go unnoticed.

Gladio turns back to him, pauses, and then raises both eyebrows.

“What? You actually need me to help you?”

Prompto leaps back a whole foot, hands raised up and blush firmly back in place. “No! Nope, no thanks. I’m just going to… I mean I’ll just be…”

Prompto sees the laughter dancing in the man’s eyes and snaps his mouth shut. He turns about on his heel and marches stiffly into the latrine.

He doesn’t need anybody’s help, thank you very much. It’s been, like, _barely_ fifteen years since he’s last done this, it’s not like you _forget_.

Just like riding a bike, as Noct says. Prompto’s ridden _tons_ of bikes.

It… doesn’t go very well.

Prompto cleans up as well as he is able, but he's aware of a faint aroma that he hopes is only obvious to someone with enhanced senses like him. To be fair to the environment, it’s actually a little _cleaner_ in here than when he started.

There’s a knock on the door, brisk and formal. When Prom opens it he’s not surprised to see Ignis on the other side.

“I thought, whilst you were in there, that you might wish to clean up somewhat,” the hand says, holding out a stack of fabrics. “The topmost is a towel for drying yourself, the rest are some clean clothes in what I have estimated to be a better fit for you than Nocts’ own,” he explains. “The shop had a limited range, I’m afraid, but they should be comfortable at least, if not particularly fashionable. Do you need instruction on how to operate the shower?”

Prompto begins to shake his head, but then recalls the last few disastrous minutes and reconsiders.

“…Yes, please.”

If Ignis notices any smell he doesn't comment.

Prompto forces himself out of the shower after thirty minutes elapse. Ignis hasn’t given Prompto a set time to wash, but he gets the feeling that it shouldn’t be a prolonged venture. Sanitation at the facility takes three minutes; one and a half for both sides, thirty seconds per quadrant. But sanitation has never included hair washing before.

Prompto’s hair is painfully knotted, and a surprising amount comes out in his hands when he works the cleaning liquids into the mess. The lather becomes black in a very short space of time.

The first cleaning solution leaves his scalp tingling and with a feeling of ‘cleanness’ that is hard to describe, while the second makes his hair feel smoother and more flexible; some of the knots even come free between his fingers.

There’s another liquid to clean his body with, but it doesn’t sting his skin or burn his sinuses like the solvents at the facility. It smells much better too. The copious information on the back of the bottle tells him the scent is ‘Lime and Mint Wake-up Blast’.

As per Ignis’s directions, Prompto dresses only in the ‘t-shirt’ and ‘boxers’ from the pile he’s been given, which is apparently appropriate dress for sleeping. They _do_ fit well, better than the borrowed clothes. The t-shirt is bright-yellow and white, with a stylised moogle riding a chocobo on the front. Letters beneath them read: “MOOGLE CHOCOBO CARNIVAL”. The boxers are black, with red lettering around the band featuring the declaration: “I <3 Crows’ Nest”.

Prompto isn’t certain what the Crows Nest is, or what makes the crow’s nest three times better than the wearer (even if the mathematical formula is incomplete), or why clothes meant to be worn beneath others need statements on them when no-one can see them. He ignores the issue for now and hopes it isn’t important enough for him to be questioned over later.

He memorises the wording; just in case.

The remainder of his new clothes are set by Ignis in a neat pile on the couch. Prompto considers folding the dirty ones he currently has in his hands, but decides to save time and to do so when he is told where they should go in case they become disheveled in transit.

His orders were to come outside after his wash, so Prompto leaves the caravan.

Ignis, Gladio, and the marshal sit on flimsy-looking chairs of white plastic, around an equally flimsy-looking, matching table. There are playing cards in their hands, and they look to be in the middle of a game.

“Feeling better?” Ignis asks.

Gladio glances up from his hand and his lips pinch tightly together. It’s futile, however; as a second later his laughter explodes out of him, unrestrained.

“Shit, Iggy, you couldn’t find anything brighter for the kid?”

Ignis rolls his eyes, although his lips quirk upward just a little bit as he looks Prompto up and down.

“Regrettably there were no other choices in his size.”

“I like it,” Prompto blurts. Strangely, he feels overly protective of the garments.

Gladio stops laughing and the three regard him with a little more focus.

Prom brings up a hand to rub nervously at his (super clean and fluffy) hair. “I-I mean; it’s soft, and it fits me, and it’s warm. I-I don’t really understand the messages, but I’m sure they have significance...” he takes a gamble on that one. On rare occasions admitting ignorance leads to lesser sanctions, or at least, no more sanctions than he would otherwise receive. He _hates_ waiting for sanctions.

“No significance, kid,” Gladio chuckles, “It’s just random words. Companies stick that shit on there for no damn reason all the time; nothing deep about it.”

Prompto is relieved. It’s nonsensical, but then many human actions are (or at least appear to be), and he’s glad there isn’t some kind of measure of his worth in comparison to whatever the Crows' Nest is by _any_ multiplier, thank you very much.

Ignis regards him closely, then lays his cards neatly facedown on the table, and rises. He pulls his chair out a little way and gestures to it invitingly.

“Sit, please.”

Prompto starts forward at the command, but quickly realises there are only three chairs at the table, and stops, flushing. Something about taking a seat from a human— from _another_ human, he chides himself— feels wrong.

“Oh! Uh, you d-don’t have to—”

Ignis raises a hand for silence, and Prompto bites his tongue to stop any more words spilling out.

“I would like to do something about your hair, if you would permit me,” Ignis says. He points to his right. “You may place your dirty clothes in the bag over there. I’ll deal with all the laundry tomorrow.”

When he opens the bag Prompto sees that there are already clothes inside; ones that smell like the advisor and shield. Now that he takes greater note of them, Ignis and Gladio are wearing different clothes than the ones they were in that morning; so Prom assumes they have also showered and changed whilst he was sleeping.

The clothes inside aren’t folded, so he places his own in as they are.

He walks carefully to the empty chair, past Ignis, who waits patiently for him, and sits with all due caution. He is at least sitting with his back to the wall of the caravan, even if he is facing the marshal and Gladio at 47 degrees each - easy for them to form a pincer attack should they think it necessary.

“Don’t look so spooked, kid,” Gladio grunts, his eyes back on his cards, “We’re not mad about earlier.”

“You’re not?” Prompto yelps. He doesn’t mean to, but he can’t help it; his nerves buzz beneath his skin.

Gladio glances past Prompto to Ignis, who has taken up position behind the chair, out of Prompto’s line of sight. Gladio’s expression is complicated; a raised eyebrow and a smirk; but he doesn’t look particularly happy all the same.

“We don’t blame you for becoming overwrought, Prompto,” Ignis says. Prompto can hear cloth rustling and he turns to look, seeing that the man is rolling up his shirt sleeves.

Prompto wonders what exactly “dealing with” his hair entails. He assumes it will be shaved, though he can’t see any clippers or power supply to operate them by. He’s a little sad he won’t get to enjoy the feeling of the light strands whisping about his neck and cheeks for much longer, but he needs to be practical. Hair is an inconvenience that has to be dealt with, nothing more.

“From what Gladio tells me you had every reason to be,” the hand continues. “I hope you are feeling better, now?”

Prompto nods. “T-The shower is really good.”

Gladio snorts again, and Prompto turns quickly back to face him.

“Now I know you can’t be lying. No-one can call that p.o.s “good” with a straight face if they’ve had anything close to decent before.”

Ignis’s sigh ruffles the looser strands of Prompto’s hair.

“I do wish you would speak more tactfully, sometimes, Gladiolus.”

Prompto looks over at Cor, who isn’t smiling. “I’m sorry to interrupt the interrogation, Marshal,” he says, hoping the preemtive apology might grant him some leniency.

And he _is_ sorry so he isn’t lying. The interruption means he has to go through all that again, instead of getting it over with in one go. He is _intimately_ familiar with the concept of sensitisation, though it relates more usually to physical stressors than mental.

The marshal’s expression doesn’t change, but he does tilt his head back a little, observing Prompto with measuring eyes.

“We can continue tomorrow,” he says. “I meant what I said earlier. You seem like a good kid, I’m not out to torture anybody.”

“Could’a fooled me,” Gladio mutters, but it’s quieter than the usual human range of hearing given the distance between him and the others, so Prompto thinks he probably hadn’t meant to be heard.

“What was that, soldier?” Cor asks. His voice has a stern note to it, but isn’t as sharp as it would be for a true reprimand.

“Just wondering if we were going to talk all night or play some cards,” Gladio says, this time at normal volume. He bares his teeth in a guileless grin, and ignores the glare Cor levels on him.

“My hands will be occupied,” Ignis says, “Perhaps Prompto can play under my direction? Until he picks up the game for himself, that is.”

Prom realises that this question is directed at him, so he quickly affirms. He picks up the cards and holds them awkwardly splayed in his hands, mimicking the other two.

He tries not to flinch when Ignis touches his hair, but there’s a slight pause in the man’s movements all the same.

“If at any point you are uncomfortable with what I am doing, I want you to tell me,” he says, “…Prompto?”

Prom turns himself until he is looking up at the hand.

“Y-yes?”

“I mean it,” Ignis’s expression is stern. “If you need me to stop at any point, you must promise to speak up. I will be most aggrieved if you do not.”

Prom is very aware of the cards he’s holding and does _not_ clench his hands together like he wants to. He’s certain destruction of property still leads to sanctions, regardless of his current tenuous status as an ally.

“S-sure, Iggy, I p-promise,” he manages.

_He can do that, right? It might not be so hard._

Ignis’s face splits into a rare smile. “Good. That is very good to hear. Thank you, Prompto. Please remember it.”

Cor leans forward, tapping a finger on the table. When he has Prompto’s attention he says:

“Sometimes it’s easier to signal rather than speak. You might want to say something and you can’t for some reason, or you don’t want to interrupt one of us talking. That happens, you put both your hands on the table like this—” he demonstrates, palms resting against the plastic, “—Scientia will stop straight away. Got it?”

Prompto nods shakily. Relief runs through him. It leaves him feeling oddly… floaty?

“Thank you, Marshal,” Ignis says, “Now, Prompto, have you ever heard of Leiden whist?”

Leiden whist, it turns out, is basically Succarpre tacent. The cards hold the same values, despite these ones having royal-, as opposed to military-, rankings. He sees the facility personnel playing it enough to have a basic grasp of the rules, and the rest is just statistical probability.

He drinks some water and eats a sandwich as they play, at Ignis’s insistence; and manages not to cry (he’s never heard of a Luncheon before, but its meat sure is delicious).

All the while, Ignis is touching his hair. He doesn’t shave his head, much to Prom’s relief and curiosity, and whatever instruments he’s using don’t even cut into his scalp like the shears the scientists use. Something metallic is being run semi-rhythmically through the strands, Ignis’s fingers rubbing and teasing at the knots. It’s soothing, though sometimes uncomfortable, but Prompto can’t help thinking on Ignis-, and the marshal’s-, instructions.

_It can't be that easy... can it?_

The theory is completely contradictory to any previous experience Prompto has ever had. He wants to believe it is possible, but his entire existence is evidence to the contrary. Even if they technically don’t outrank him in a military sense, his chip certainly recognises the authority of humanity they hold over him. Surely he can’t just... countermand their instructions?

_It has to be a test._

He waits for his moment, when Gladio is engaged with the marshal in some discussion over a plot to some... movie? (Prompto understands the concept of movies – he’s friends with Noct after all – but the terminology is too specific for a layman like him to grasp the full context of their debate).

Prompto takes a slow, even breath, and places his hands carefully down upon the table.

He stares resolutely at his fingers, and rides out the negative feelings that assault him for his disobedience, heart hammering in his throat.

Ignis’s hands instantly disappear; as if they have simply melted away, like miasma.

”My apologies, Prompto,” the hand says. He doesn’t touch, but he does come around into Prompto’s visual range - if Prom felt inclined to lift his gaze from his own hands to acknowledge him, that is.

The marshal and shield have also stopped talking. Prompto can feel their gaze on him, intense but non-hostile.

”I did not notice you becoming overwhelmed. We can stop there for tonight, if you wish.”

Prompto’s head shoots up, mouth open in frank disbelief.

He stopped.

He said he would stop and...

He _stopped_.

“Prompto?”

Ignis doesn’t move to touch him, but his voice carries as much weight as a physical pat to the shoulder. The man’s calm - _totally un-angry_ \- gaze sweeps over Prom’s face for a long moment as he stays mutely staring, and then Iggy begins to retreat.

”No!” Prompto yelps. “Um, sorry, I—“ He flushes brightly, facial temperature rising a whole degree, and brings a hand off the table to reach out for the man, only to pause, hesitantly, half-way. “I... uh, I just got a little... I mean... please c-carry on —only if you want to, obvs!”

Ignis smiles, and this time he does lay a comforting hand on Prompto’s shoulder.

”Of course, Prompto. But only if you are certain you are all-right.”

Prompto nods vigorously, swallowing down a hundred different excuses for his poor behaviour, knowing it'll just expose his deceit.

”Yeah! I’m cool... Sorry about that, Iggs.”

“No need to apologise,” Ignis says, squeezing his shoulder gently. “Thank you for doing as I had asked. It puts my mind at ease, knowing that I shan’t be going beyond what you can bear.”

”S-sure thing, Iggster,” Prompto chirps, giving the man a glassy smile.

As the hand returns to his position behind Prompto, Prom’s eyes meet Cor’s, and his fragile smile falters.

Cor is giving him that Look again. 

Astrals, he _knows_.

Whatever blood has flooded to Prompto’s face before now flees, leaving him dizzy and his ears ringing. Before he can think of a plan of escape, Cor’s calculating frown moulds into what is impossibly, yet unmistakably, a smile.

”That’s right, kid,” he says, “We all have to know our limits... and those of our friends.”

Prompto swallows thickly, and gives a jerking nod, not trusting his voice for a verbal reply. He glances briefly at Gladio and the man catches his eye, giving him a cheery wink.

_Six, do they all know? Why weren't they furious with his deception?_

For want of anything better to do, Prompto picks up his cards, his hand tembling ever so slightly. His vision is patchy, still too stunned at the outcome to focus upon the game.

There is a short, comfortable pause, broken by a grunt from Gladio.

“What’s trumps again?”

”For the last time, Amicita: it’s Clubs. Now pay attention. Next time you gotta ask, you’re drawing from the pile.”

Gladio mutters something rude that Prompto can’t quite make out, because at that moment Ignis begins to work on his hair again.

Prompto relaxes, and the cards slide back into focus.

~

“No fair,” Gladio grumbles after his third defeat, “How’m I expected to compete with a robot?”

“I’m not a robot,” Prompto says defensively. His head bobs a little as Ignis strategically attacks yet another knotted clump of hair. It’s not painful. The man holds the hair in his fingers near to his scalp, counterbalancing the tug from the comb. There’s a great deal of viscous liquid in his hair, a towel around his shoulders soaking up what runs off. It feels slippery - oily - but smells nice. Ignis says it helps to untangle the knots.

“Pfft, same difference,” Gladio huffs. He leans back in his chair, a hand thrown out to gesture at Prompto, who _doesn’t_ flinch. “Bet that fancy piece of junk in your head does all the work for you.”

Prompto can’t shake his head without disrupting Ignis’s work so he pouts instead. “The suits do all that stuff. The Neuro Link is passive, it mostly monitors internal functions.”

“Such as?” Cor prompts. He looks much less curious than Prompto thinks he actually is, appearing more focused on dealing out another round.

“Anything nervous system related. Biometric values, audio-visuals, translation…”

“Biometric…?”

“Well, the most it does without a suit to translate the data is give a vitals read-out,” Prom gives an apologetic grimace. “I can’t even access my hard memory archives fully without an external device like a suit.”

“ “Hard” memory?”

“Yeah, like, you know how computers store all their files on a hard drive? I’ve still got, like, my regular —erm, _mostly_ -human brain to keep biological memory, but anything the scientists upload for training purposes is held in the hardware. That and a full archive backup of my own memories.”

“So am I right in thinking you don’t know what’s in there?”

Prompto sighs. He’s anticipated this question and still isn’t certain how best to answer.

“My memory and the data files are on separate databases. I can access some core files on the data storage but it’s like…” he smiles, thinking back to earlier that day. The group pass a pond on their way to the hunt and Noct spends a long time afterwards wistfully musing on the possible inhabitants, and bemoaning the lack of spare time to stay and catch them.

“It’s like a fish under water with the sun reflecting on the surface,” Prom says, the tranquility of that moment easing the worry he has in answering the marshal appropriately, “I see it for a second or two but then it’s gone. But if I don't know what I'm looking for I don't see anything at all.”

“But you _can_ access your own memory files? With perfect recall?”

“Yes.”

“Is that why you speak in present tense all the time?”

The question doesn’t only surprise Prompto, judging by the sudden pause in the hands working his hair, and the startled look Gladio shoots his way.

“I've not really thought about it before…” he says slowly, considering the question and the issue itself for the first time. “I guess, when I access the memory, I re-play it in cortico-visual overlay, so it’s kinda difficult to separate past and present, y’know?”

”Corto-whatnow?” Gladio asks.

”Cortico-visual,” Prom says, “Like, it triggers all the same processes in my brain: the optic nerve, amygdala, hypothalamus, and all that, so I see and feel everything exactly as it happened, just over the top of my regular vision, y’know?”

Cor stares at him grimly for a long time. Ignis’s hands in his hair stay perfectly still.

“It mustn’t be pleasant, experiencing memories like that,” he says.

Prompto blinks at the reaction.

“I don’t understand…” he says, still marvelling that such an admission doesn’t provoke immediate sanctions.

Ignis sighs and his hands leave Prompto’s hair. The man comes to Prompto’s side, wiping his hands on another towel, and crouches down until their faces are level.

“Prompto, a large part of the way humans are able to regulate our emotions – the way we can move past traumatic or sad events for example – is because we are able, over a period of time, to separate strong emotion from those events. Experiencing memories as you describe, where each time feels as fresh and raw as the first…” he pauses, his brow creased in a sincere frown, “...it is distressing to _hear_ of such a thing, let alone to conceive living it.”

Prompto feels as if he’s been punched in the stomach. He stubbornly refuses to even consider vomiting the sandwich back up like the curry. He still feels bad about wasting the food, no matter how many times Iggy reassures him.

“You don’t… that’s not… how everyone does it?” he manages to get out.

Ignis shakes his head. He places a hand on Prompto’s arm, eyes earnest.

“Prompto, my parents died when I was very young. If I were to recall their passing with the same emotional extreme as at the time it occurred, or even the months following it, it would break me utterly. I cannot fathom the strength you must have to endure such experiences with regularity.”

“…Oh.” Prompto has nothing else he can say. The concept is so completely, complexly alien to him.

“If this is a conscious act...” Ignis pauses again, clearly choosing his words with care. “Prompto, if you are able to access your own mind’s memories, and not use the Hard Drive in such a manner, I urge you to do so. While you knew no better, you are causing yourself real harm.”

”I... I’ll try,” Prom croaks.

“Hey, it’s not all doom and gloom, Iggy,” Gladio says with a certain amount of forced cheer. “If he can remember bad shit he can remember all the good things too. Right, kid? Like when you saw the outside world for the first time, or when you ate Iggy’s curry, or— Ah, crap. No, kid, don’t— stop thinking about the damn— _godsdammit_ … I’ve got a tissue here somewhere…”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for all your kind words. It's so motivating to know there are folk who are reading and enjoying this story!
> 
> I had a scare last week when I thought I'd lost the rest of it to AO3 draft-purgatory and I think I would have just expired if that had been the case! I've got everything properly backed up now, so that is a lesson well learnt ^^; T x
> 
> PS. And please know that I do read all the comments, even if I don't reply to every one (and replying may take a while, even after I've read them!) so this is a blanket thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone I don't get around to personally replying to!! <3

Noctis woke up to a sunbeam warming his cheek. He sat up slowly, grimacing as his back protested. He wasn’t surprised, he’d been asleep, what?— he checked his phone, which someone (Ignis) had thoughtfully plugged into the booth beside him – _fourteen hours_? Astrals, no wonder he was starving.

The caravan was empty, the other beds neatly folded away. Noctis wondered where Cor’d slept; if he’d bunked with one of the others or made Galdio and Iggy bunk together instead. He smirked at the image of his two retainers squeezed onto the barely even queen size bed, and hoped it’d been the latter.

 _Bet they woke up spooning_.

Seeing no reason to hurry, he took a shower, enjoying the almost-hot water and a chance to scrub a week’s worth of sweat and grime away.

He found some of his clean clothes folded away in one of the cupboards. Seriously, Ignis was the type of guy to unpack a suitcase for an overnight stay at a motel. Such a mom.

Finally dressed and hair styled to his liking, Noctis left the caravan, stopping on the step to stretch and yawn expansively.

A stranger was sitting in one of the plastic seats, staring up at him. He was wearing a weird mashup of clothes, like the world’s least classy tourist, and was half-way through what was clearly one of Iggy’s famous omelettes, loaded fork hovering in midair toward an open mouth, already half-full of food.

Noctis’s arms were likewise still raised above his head, he realised, and he dropped them quickly.

“Mornin’” the stranger said, words muffled around semi-chewed egg, and instantly turned a deep shade of red. It made the freckles on his cheeks stand out even more; a stark contrast to the bright, light-blue of his eyes.

Very familiar eyes.

“ _Prompto?!_ ”

“That’s me,” Prompto grinned lopsidedly, “What’s up, buddy?”

Noctis wondered if he was still dreaming. But the Prompto of his dreams— _wait, no, that sounded super creepy_ — the Prompto from their shared dream world— _ok, still not great but better_ — had always had short, kinda _blah_ hair, and it had never been styled. _Especially_ not like this.

“What happened to your hair??”

“Iggy got it all straightened out and cut it last night,” Prom said. His free hand came up to self-consciously pat the high-swooping quiff. “He said I should keep it long in the back to cover the port, but otherwise I styled it myself… Do you like it?” Prom’s smile faltered on the last words, eyes taking on an uncertain veil as he watched Noctis for his reaction.

Noctis got a hold of himself. He was acting ridiculously; it was just a damn haircut. Actually, when not taken in the context of the absolute horror that was Prom’s wardrobe, the style was pretty cool; in an eccentric, attention-getting kind of way.

Thinking about it, it matched Prompto’s personality perfectly.

“Dude, I _love_ it,” he said, grinning. He slouched down the caravan steps and dropped into the chair beside his new and improved best friend.

Relief flashed across Prompto’s features, then his high-beam smile came back, full force.

“Iggy said it looks “dynamic”,” he said, proudly.

“I bet he did,” Noctis chuckled, “but uh, you didn’t choose the clothes... did you?”

“Iggy said they were the only ones in my size. But they fit and they’re comfortable.”

Noctis jumped back to his feet, shaking his head. “No, no, no, Prompto, my man, you gotta think about more than that when it comes to fashion. It’s all about the _aesthetic,_ dude. Come on, we’ll take a look at the shop. There’s got to be _something_ better than that crap. I’m not having my bestie walk around in public dressed like a walking advert for the Lucian tourist board.”

“That can wait until after your own breakfast, Highness,” Ignis said, his voice brooking no argument. He and Gladio were approaching from the direction of the services, bags in their hands probably containing laundry. 

“Yesss, more clean underwear!” Noctis said, fist-pumping the air in victory. “I owe you both one.”

“Enough to take a turn the next time we need clean clothes?” Ignis asked, wryly.

Noctis held a hand to his heart, staggering back as if struck.

“You surely don’t expect the heir to the throne of Lucis to _debase_ himself in such a way,” he gasped. “You wound the line of Kings, Iggy. _Wound_.”

Ignis rolled his eyes, but Noctis could tell his upbeat mood was keeping the guy from taking his comments too personally. Noctis’d do laundry if he really had to, but he and Iggy both knew the advisor would be hovering over his shoulder the whole time, so it wouldn’t really save Iggs any effort, and would probably just devolve into an unnecessary argument anyway.

“Pfft,” Gladio snorted. “You’ll have an easier time teaching a hobgoblin chores before Noct ever gets his princely hands sullied by menial labour.”

“Uh...?”

All three of them turned to Prompto, whose free hand was raised in the air in question, like he was at school or something.

“If you want, I could—”

“Not happening!” Noctis said, mock sternly. He skipped forward, catching Prom’s hand in his, the other pushing back his sleeve and pinching the muscle of his bicep. _Holy shit, it was like solid iron._

“These muscles weren’t made for laundry. We wouldn’t dream of a super-soldier like you lowering yourself for our sakes,” he said, and though he was being sarcastic there was a thin undercurrent he hoped his friends would pick up on. Prompto didn’t need to do _anything_ to prove himself useful to them.

“ _Would we_ , guys?” he followed up, eyeing the two meaningfully.

“Perish the thought,” Ignis said, pushing his glasses up his nose, effectively hiding his expression from view.

“Pfft, chocobutt here would probably accidentally tear your silk unmentionables to pieces with that ‘super strength’ of his anyway.”

Noctis bristled.

“I do **not** have—!”

“Now, now, gentlemen,” Ignis cut in before a fight could start. “There’s enough egg mixture left for a round of omelettes each. Do sit, Highness, before you lose us the deposit on the caravan.”

“That was _one_ time!”

“Precedent is just cause for caution,” Ignis said, fixing the prince with a steely eye. “…You’re looking a little anaemic, Sire. Perhaps an addition of complex carbohydrates to your meal would be in order?”

Noctis’s mouth snapped shut. He took his seat again, keeping his glaring to a minimum in case Iggy followed through with his vegetable-based threat.

“We’re still going to the store right after breakfast,” he grumbled.

Nobody argued against him, which meant Noctis had _won_.

~

Ignis had been right, the JM’s selection was abysmal - not exactly surprising given the ‘shop’ was just a collection of junk in the back of a pickup. Still, Noctis managed to find a few suitable items, though they did sit a little on the big side on his friend. These he managed to persuade Iggy to buy, on the double reasoning that if they were bigger they could be tailored to fit Prompto’s odd body shape, and that Prom was sure to put on at least a little extra weight once he’d had a few more of the advisor’s delicious meals.

He might have said “delicious” a few extra times, and other such flattery; but it was worth it to see his bestie in something that wasn’t going to get him laughed at by _preschoolers_.

It also gave them a chance to get a proper fitting for Prompto’s feet, which were a little on the large side for his size. Even so, the borrowed pair of Gadio’s boots he was currently in were padded with four pairs of thick socks. Noctis made sure he got a dig in about chocobo DNA, just to watch Prom blush and stutter; adorable nerd that he was.

The shop didn’t have Prom’s size so they placed an order for a pair of boots that Prompto liked the look of. With any luck they’d arrive within a few days.

Noctis splashed out some of his personal budget on a chunky wristband with a death’s head skull on the back, along with a few other complimenting accessories. He pretended to himself the cuff was just for Prom’s benefit, but really that barcode gave him the heebs.

At Noct’s urging, Prompto picked out some things for himself, looking all the time like they were going to give him marks on what he chose. In the end he held up a pair of fingerless gloves; black leather, and slightly worn, but well fitting.

“A wise choice,” Ignis congratulated, and they all ignored the relief that _melted_ from the guy. “Might I enquire as to what led you to your descision?”

“Um…” Prompto looked down at the gloves, turning them over and back again. “I thought they’d offer some protection... if I’m in combat again. Breaking my knuckles every time isn’t exactly fun. Plus I… kinda don’t like getting my hands dirty?”

Gladio snorted. “You sound like Her Royal Highness over there.”

Noctis threw an arm over Prom’s shoulder, tugging him in tight so their heads were touching.

“Ignore Gladio,” he drawled, “he’s just pissed that cool shirt with the eagle on it doesn’t come in gigantic-freak size.”

When Iggy went to pay, Noctis expertly steered Prompto away from the truck, before he could hear the total.

Yup. They were going to be living on cup noodles for the foreseeable, but it was worth it to see his friend looking so fly.

Prom seemed to agree, if the new swagger he had to his step was any indication. He’d changed clothes unselfconsciously beside the truck; as if getting half-naked in full view of the whole outpost was no big deal at all. And Noctis wouldn’t even have been too bothered, if it hadn’t been for the scars.

From the looks on Iggy and Gladio’s faces when Prom wasn’t looking, they too weren’t exactly thrilled. But Prom had already been half-way out of his godsawful slacks, so calling it out would’ve just made things worse. Instead, the three of them had taken up a sort of guard around Prom, blocking him from the view of any passers-by, and chattering away so that they didn’t draw attention to their actions.

Ignis had smoothly snatched and held up an overlarge t-shirt, which worked as a really good screen against the JM shopkeeper; commenting on its suitability as a longline top. Gladio grabbed hold of an opposing edge, extending the effective area of the screen; and took up the counterpoint, the two bickering so naturally that no attention was directed toward Prom in the slightest.

Noctis had been relieved. Scars weren’t unusual in a hunters’ community, but the guy just had _so many_. He was going to have to talk to Prom about it at some point, but that didn’t have to be today.

It had all been worth it, though, to see Prom rocking his new duds.

“Looking sharp, man,” Noct grinned.

“Indeed. Some say the clothes maketh the the man,” Ignis said, tucking the group’s wallet back into his jacket and adjusting his glasses against the glare of the sun, “however, in this case I would posit the clothes bringeth the man forth, as it were.”

“Don’t mind Iggy,” Noctis stage-whispered to his blank-faced friend. “He gets like that sometimes.”

“I am simply suggesting that the clothes Prompto has chosen both reflect and enhance his personality,” Ignis said, testily.

“Ok, philosophy class is over,” Gladio said, slapping Iggs on the shoulder as he passed. “While you ladies were playing dress-up, I grabbed us another hunt from Dave.”

“A hunt?” Ignis said. He glanced at Prompto then back to the shield. “Do you think that wise?”

“Don’t know about wise,” Gladio huffed, “but if you want to stay another day in that trailer instead of roughing it out on the parking lot then we need to go and make back Prince Charming’s kitty.”

“You pawned a cat?” Prompto asked, looking totally bewildered, “…Noct has a cat?”

“He means the Royal Purse is empty,” Ignis said with a sigh, shooting Gladio a similar death-glare to the one Noctis was currently giving his shield, “Though I had thought that a little _discretion_ might have been in order. We are perfectly capable of camping at a Haven tonight instead of taxing ourselves in a hunt so soon after the last.”

“With what?” Gladio scoffed. “Our camping stuff’s in the Regalia.”

“Wait. What’s wrong with the Regalia?” Noctis whipped round, straining to see from their position to where the car should have been parked.

 _Should_ have.

“ _Where’s my dad’s car?!_ ”

“Cool it, Highness,” Gladio said, holding up his hands as if warding off the icy fury beginning to flow off Noctis in waves. “Cor just needed to borrow it for a few hours. He said he’d be back by the evening. Tomorrow morning, tops.”

“You let _Cor_ borrow my dads car?!”

“Hey, it’s no big deal. We had nowhere to be, and he drove it when he was touring with Regis, didn’t he?”

Ignis sighed, readjusting his glasses as if they were a physical manifestation of his expectations. “Marshall Leonis was, in fact, prohibited from driving the Regalia during King Regis’s tour, due to several unfortunate – and I am certain, _accidental_ – incidents,” he tried to reassure Noctis, who wasn’t standing for any of that diplomatic bullshit.

Gladio began to look a little less certain of himself.

“Oh.”

“You let Cor take my dad’s car,” Noctis said, making sure his tone was as cold as Shiva herself, “and you didn’t even take the camping stuff out before he left?”

“Hey, I didn’t expect you to blow a month’s budget on the Chocobo Prince here, did I?” Gladio huffed in classic deflection.

“A month’s…” Prompto repeated, sounding – and looking – a little faint.

“It doesn’t matter,” Noctis said, catching his friend’s arm and pulling him to face him, his worries about the car on the back burner while he fixed the mess Gladio’s big mouth had made.

“Listen, Prom, you don’t need to worry about how much that stuff cost or any of that crap. I _like_ cup noodles, and sleeping out at the Havens is fine. It’s forecast to be dry for the next week at least, no biggie!”

“But—!”

“Nope.”

“But I—”

“Nuh-uh.”

“I can—”

“Not your problem,” Noctis said firmly. “Seriously, dude, it’s the _least_ we can do. You deserve more than a couple of t-shirts from a freakin’ gift shop. If you wanna pay us back you just keep doing what you do, okay? I didn’t make sure you got dressed up right so you could spoil the look with a frown, ‘kay?”

“…Okay.” Prompto ducked his head slightly, clearly embarrased with the positive attention and not knowing how to handle it. He looked up at Noctis from under his lashes, and gave a sheepish smile.

 _Astrals_ , if Prom ever got into the dating game his target would stand _zero_ chance. No contest. The guy was sickeningly good at the whole cute but vulnerably clueless schtick.

Noctis wondered if Prom was sure he had chocobo DNA and not Golden Retriever.

He gave his bud a decisive nod, and then turned to Gladio, who had the grace to look at least a little rueful.

“Okay, genius, what’s this hunt?”

Gladio held up a copy of the advertisement. 

“There’s a couple of sabertusks causing problems on a hunting trail a few clicks east of here. Shouldn’t take more than a few hours.”

Ignis contemplated the paper. “Hmm, a four-man team seems a tad overkill in the circumstance. Two of us should be more than enough.”

“Can I go?” Prompto piped up.

Noctis tried to think of a suitably not-harsh way of saying no, but Ignis beat him to it.

“I don’t think that is necessary, but thank you for your offer, Prompto.”

“But I want to help,” Prompto looked nearly desperate. “It’s my fault you guys need to do the hunt in the first place.”

Noctis huffed, unable to keep some of his exasperation out of his tone. “Dude, what did I _literally_ just say?”

“But I—!”

“While I commend your enthusiasm, Prompto, Noctis has a point,” Ignis cut in smoothly, “Besides, this level of hunt shouldn’t be any trouble for two of us. Gladio and Noctis can go and deal with the bothersome sabertusks, and we can remain here at the Outpost. I can even show you how to sew your new purchases into a more agreeable fit.”

“If it’s just two of us I don’t see why you can’t go, Iggy,” Noct said. He knew he sounded petulant, but come on! How had it turned out like this?

“No way. Not happening,” Gladio said.

“I have to agree with Gladio on this matter,” Ignis said, solemnly. “Whilst Prompto’s behaviour has so far been exemplary, I must insist we maintain our caution. I do not wish to cause offence, Prompto, but we must be practical.”

“None taken,” Prom smiled weakly. “I get it, really. I’m, like, basically a stranger, even without all the… y’know.” He gestured to himself with a shrug.

“Bullshit,” Noctis grumbled.

It didn’t take long for Ignis’s relentless logic to bring him round, however, if only to shut the guy up.

_His kingdom for a peaceful life!_

Half an hour later he and Gladio were heading off up the eastern tracks, while Ignis and Prompto settled down to a gentle afternoon of sewing.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a bit heavy, folks. CW for death-adjacent shenanigans, with a side order of angst. T x

Noctis and Gladio returned five hours later; Noctis with a face of thunder, and the shield smirking like all his birthdays had come at once. Oddly, the prince’s uniform shirt was tied around his waist, despite the evening's growing chill.

“Ah, the intrepid adventurers return,” Ignis called lightly. “Were… you… success…ful…?” he trailed off as Noct’s oppressive scowl came ever closer and then passed them by completely.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Noct snapped, not slowing his pace as he marched toward the camper.

“Noct, dude, I learned how to do a basting stitch,” Prompto said cheerily, holding up his work in his many-plastered fingers. “Turns out clothes sewing is pretty much the same as people sewing, only less messy, and—”

“That’s great, Prom.” Noct didn’t even look at Prompto’s t-shirt as he passed them by.

Ignis frowned, turning in his chair to follow the prince’s progress. “Oh dear, did something hap—”

“I _don’t_ want to talk about it!” Noct shouted and slammed the door of the caravan shut behind him.

“Dear me, what could have occurred?” Ignis directed his question toward Gladio as he approached.

The shield grabbed a beer from the cooler and fell into an unoccupied chair. “Hmm? Oh, the hunt? It went fine.”

“No injuries?”

“Only if you count to his Highness’s pride,” Gladio said cryptically, still smirking. He paused, taking an unnecessarily prolonged sip of his beer.

“Noct needs to work on protecting his… _flank_ ,” he elaborated, eyebrows waggling expressively, “He left himself open to a sabertusk’s… tusk.”

“Oh? ... _Ah_.”

Ignis pretended his didn’t see Prompto’s curious look, not feeling inclined to explain to the lad.

The door to the caravan slammed open, revealing an en-boxered Regent of Lucis.

“I _said_ , I _don’t_ wanna talk about it!” he yelled, throwing his uniform trousers at Ignis, who caught them with some bemusement. Before he could make further enquiries as to Noct’s health, the door was once again wrenched closed.

Ignis had time before he quit to observe that Noct’s underwear, at least, appeared to be intact.

He held up the trousers, noting the long gash in the seat, big enough to fit his hand through.

Gladio, who had been taking a swig of beer at that moment, snorted half the liquid out of his nose.

“Ah,” Ignis repeated, keeping his tone level, “…Prompto, I believe a good opportunity has arisen for you to practice that patching method we discussed earlier.”

The caravan door slammed open again.

“ _What do you mean_ _:_ _“_ _people sewing”?!?”_

~

Cor returned not long after Noct had finally agreed to come out of hiding. This was coincidentally only a short while after Gladio had stopped loudly recapping the finer details of their hunt, complete with sound effects.

Ignis thought Prompto was very much to thank for their prince’s emergence. Even if his laughter had been at Noct’s expense, the sound of it had been, frankly, a balm to all their nerves.

They were eating cup noodles for dinner, much to Ignis’s dismay. He had at least managed to persuade some additional vegetables from the last of their store into the mix; though he noted that Noctis was so far carefully managing to avoid them.

Prompto, on the other hand, seemed only too eager to try any and all new flavour or texture. Peppers were currently seeing top ranking, while string beans were merely “fine” – practically a damning indictment by the young man’s standards. Ignis kept careful note of which Prompto favoured, planning future meals to compliment the flavours. He was somewhat relieved that none, as yet, had brought the lad to tears.

“Marshal,” Ignis greeted, as Cor approached them. He was about to enquire as to the outcome of the man’s errand, but Noctis cut him off.

“Where’s the Regalia?” the prince demanded, half-rising in his chair to glare toward the parking lot over Cor’s shoulder.

“Relax, Highness, she’s in one piece,” Cor said, in what Ignis considered a deliberately obtuse and provocative manner.

“That’s _not_ reassuring,” Noct growled.

“Wasn’t trying to be,” Cor said, catching the beer Gladio tossed his way and cracking it open with one hand as he took his seat.

“Was your errand successful, Marshal?” Ignis asked, before Noct started a fight he decidedly could not finish.

“It was,” Cor said, taking a swig of beer and sighing in satisfaction. “I’ve got intel on a tomb containing a royal arm, north of here. I’ll take you there in the morning.”

“Cool,” Noct nodded, appearing more dutifully solemn than eager.

“We going to be sightseeing along the way?” Gladio asked, inclining his head toward a camera which was slung about the marshal’s neck.

Cor made a noncommittal noise, and unhooked the camera by its strap.

“Cute, Amicita. This happened to be the only device in the area I could source without any transmission capabilities.”

Cor paused for a moment but then handed the camera over to Prompto, who took it carefully but with much enthusiasm.

“Is it a camera?” he asked, turning it over in his hands. “I’ve never seen one before. It’s a lot bigger than I thought it’d be.”

“They didn’t have much of a range,” Cor said with a shrug. “It’s a bit fancier than your regular digital ones, but it was the only one that matched your specs, memory capacity-wise.”

Prompto smiled, giving the camera a once-over before bringing it up to eye-level and squinting through the eyepiece. He frowned briefly, but noticed before anyone could point out for him that the cap was still on the lens.

Well, that put him above Noctis in technological capability at least, Ignis considered, suppressing a smile.

“You know your way around machines?” Cor asked, his light tone belying the serious nature of any questions he directed toward the lad.

“I guess,” Prompto said, still fiddling with the lens and various buttons on the back. “We were taught how to assemble and disassemble various military weapons, computers, and machinery. After a while you kind of get the instinct for what bit should do what.” Prompto turned to Noct, holding the camera up. “Hey, dude, smile.”

Ignis was impressed with the improvement to Prompto’s speech, even after less than a day since the issue had been raised. He was already speaking in the correct tense almost without hesitance. Ignis wondered how much effort it was taking the lad.

“It’s suitable then?”

“Huh?” Prompto tore his eyes from the screen where he has been considering the slightly out of focus image of Noctis, the prince’s fingers held up in a peace sign. “Oh! Oh yeah, uh— _yes_ , Marshal, it’s great, thank you.”

“Good,” Cor grunted. “Let’s get this done then. We’ve got an early start tomorrow.”

~

They decided to conduct the process inside the caravan, to prevent any passer-by seeing Prompto sitting with a cable plugged into his head, which would certainly lead to _questions_.

“I can’t believe this all just hooks up,” Noct said, shaking his head. “Why does your port-thing even _have_ a USB?”

“Why d’you think the empire invented them, dude?” Prompto snorted, his hands busy tapping through a blue text screen which had popped up on the camera viewer the minute the camera had been connected.

“…B-Besithia wanted to be sure MTs were programmable in battle conditions. If an MT unit got stuck behind enemy lines, he wanted it to be easy to switch us from one core function to another.”

“The empire invented universal ports for electronic devices to enable efficiency of warfare?” Ignis asked, though he wondered why he sounded so incredulous; such was par for the course in regard to Niflheim, he was discovering.

“Devious bastards,” Gladio grunted, “They got any other time-bombs ticking away in our cities?”

“Not that I know of, but I wasn’t exactly on a ‘need-to-know’, y’know?” Prompto chuckled dryly.

“We vetoed their phone imports after we received intel on their ‘mind-control-through-cellular-frequency’ experimentations,” Cor said. He was watching Prompto carefully, his arms folded and his expression unreadable.

“I’m, like, ninety-percent sure you’re joking,” Noct muttered, side-eyeing the marshal.

“Only ninety? Must be losing my touch.”

“Ok.” Prompto sat back, staring at the screen. “All set.”

“What happens next?” Ignis asked.

“It’s super easy,” Prompto said, turning the screen toward them. It looked like any other computer DOS screen Ignis had ever seen. Unsettling to think it was accessing Prompto’s _brain_.

“I’ve typed out the command sequence in advance, so all you need to do once I connect is activate it.”

“Why can’t you do that?” Noct asked warily. Ignis understood his concern; Noct had never been overly adept with technology outwith a gaming console.

“At the moment the camera is just kind of, sitting outside my hard drive,” Prompto said, “As soon as it accesses the internal database to complete the sequence, it’ll take over as the main processor.”

“Like uploading pictures onto a computer?” Cor asked. “In that case the camera can’t function to take photos and the like until it’s disconnected,” he explained to Prompto’s blank look.

Prompto considered this, then nodded. “Sounds about the same. It’ll disable all my processes until it’s complete.”

“Wait, “all”?” Noct asked sharply. “Like, _all_ of them? Won’t that kill you?”

Prompto gave him what he probably considered to be a reassuring smile.

“The sequence’ll take thirty seconds tops to run. Everything’ll slow down but I won’t even have stopped breathing by that point.”

“Are you _serious_ _?_ ”

Ignis had to agree with his prince’s outrage.

“That does seem remarkably inefficient,” he said.

“Well, it’s not like it’s meant to be done outside of the pods, or when we’re not hooked up to some other life support system,” Prompto said, rubbing his neck but being careful not to dislodge the cabling. “Any MTs in combat zones _should_ be L3, so they don’t have to worry about a physical body getting in the way of reprogramming.”

“Whilst that may be the case, Prompto, we _do_ worry,” Ignis said, keeping his solemn gaze on the lad.

Prompto blinked a few times, then gave a sheepish smile, glancing away.

“Yeah, I guess… thanks. For worrying, I mean. But it really isn’t a big deal. I made sure the sequence is short enough to compensate for my body’s needs. Worst case, if anything goes wrong just disconnect the camera and we can try again later.”

“How do we do that?” Noct asked, his tone flippant in that way that Ignis knew meant he was not happy with what he’d been told, “…just pull the plug?”

“What? No!” Prompto squeaked, his face paling, “Not unless you want to, like, _lobotomise_ me, dude.” He gave a weak chuckle, likely trying to dispel the tension. “Just, select this button on the camera and it’ll pause the command and disconnect without wiping the drive.” He pointed out the sequence.

Ignis had him repeat it a few times until he was certain he had the sequence memorised.

“I still don’t particularly like it, but I suppose we have no choice,” he sighed, “You cannot live your life in fear of the Empire tracking you.”

“Or, you know, going postal on us,” Gladio snorted.

“May I suggest you lay down for the process?” Ignis said, ignoring Gladio’s less-than-constructive comment and gesturing to one of the caravan beds. “If your body won’t even be maintaining basic survival functions, I can’t imagine you’ll stay sitting upright on a stool for the duration.”

Prompto nodded his agreement and within a few minutes they had him set up on a bed, laying on his side, facing the wall. From this position they could all see the port embedded at the top of the young man’s spine – sitting right over the Atlas – the camera cable trailing rather surreally from it at a forty-five degree angle, pointing downward from the base of the skull. It was somewhat protected by the space between the skull and Prompto’s neck, yet accidental disconnection was still a risk should he be jostled in any way.

“Ready?” Ignis asked, kneeling down beside his head, the camera resting on what passed for the bedside table. Though he trusted his hands to remain steady during the procedure, it never hurt to be careful.

“Yup!” Prompto looked over his shoulder as much as he could without moving his head overmuch, and gave a glassy grin. “Um, see you in half a minute, I guess? Oh! Wait until my eyes are closed, would ya? Don’t want to have ‘em dry out on us. I left my spares back at the base.”

Noct made a strangled sound from where he hovered nervously behind Ignis.

“Your _what?_ ”

“It was a joke, dude,” Prompto sniggered.

“Hurry this up gentlemen,” Cor said, with an irritable huff.

“Hurrying up, sir,” Prompto said, throwing a lazy salute, “…Okay, Iggs. Go for it.”

Ignis took a steadying breath, pushing down the feeling of foreboding that threatened to unsteady his hands, and activated the sequence.

Instantly, Prompto’s body grew unnaturally still. Even as the camera screen sorted its way through the boot-up sequence, Prompto’s body was already unresponsive and as still as a corpse. He was still breathing, but as Ignis watched, his breaths were already becoming noticeably prolonged.

“How much?” Noct asked.

“Sixteen percent.”

They waited in silence, the air growing thick with tension.

“Fifty-seven percent,” Ignis said, the commentary as much for his benefit as the other three.

Noct’s hands were balled into fists and he was glaring at the screen as if it would influence the speed of the number’s creep up to completion. Ignis felt a kinship to the frustration, unable to stop himself tapping a finger against his bent knee.

“Eighty-nine percent,” he said.

Prompto was still breathing, but the status had risen by more than twenty percent in between this breath and the last.

“Ninety-three.” _Almost over_.

“Gladio.”

Cor’s voice was muted, but Ignis still picked up on the order. He whipped his head around in time to see Gladio nod stiffly, and hook his arms under Noct’s, his hands going behind the prince’s neck to lock together, pinning him securely.

“What the hell!” Noct snapped, struggling to break out of Gladio’s grip but not able to even budge him as the shield pulled him out of the way.

Ignis watched Cor carefully as the man approached the bed. He wondered whether drawing one’s knives under the circumstances would be a court-martial-able offence.

“Would you care to explain yourself, Marshal?” he asked, putting all his disapproval into the words.

“Not particularly,” Cor grunted. “Step aside, soldier.”

Ignis narrowed his eyes.

“What do you intend to do to him?” he asked, keeping his posture relaxed, unthreatening, yet poised for defensive measures – though he had no inkling as to what that might entail.

Anger and frustration flashed briefly across the marshal’s face, but he schooled his features back to impassive after barely a moment.

“I’m not going to hurt him, Scienta. I’m just making a copy of his data. The longer you delay it the worse it’s going to be for him.”

Ignis’s eyes flickered to the screen in time to see it tick to 100%. He glared openly at his superior, but moved aside just enough that Cor could access the camera. With one hand he took up Prompto’s wrist, fingers seeking out the pulse there as he watched the marshal work.

Cor took his phone out and flipped to what looked like a set of instructions.

“Citadel scientist buddy of mine knocked this together when I told him about the situation,” he explained, eyes on his work, “It won’t take long.”

Noctis – who had until this point been keeping up a stream of expletives, threats, and orders – now addressed Cor directly.

“You’ve got no right to be digging around in there. He could _die_ , Cor!”

“I’d like to avoid that if possible,” Cor said, coolly, “but the potential information that he might have stored on that hard drive could be critical in this war, whether he knows it’s there or not. I won’t let this opportunity pass us by for the sake of your feelings, Highness.”

“Cor, I’m ordering you to stop!” Noct snarled. When the marshal didn’t respond, he tried to stamp on Gladio’s instep.

“Let me _go_ , Gladiolus!”

“Sorry, Highness, you’re overruled this time,” Gladio said grimly. At least he didn’t sound happy about it.

“This is treason!”

“Respectfully, Highness, it’s _war_ ,” Cor said, and activated his sequence.

Ignis grit his teeth together and said nothing.

 _Six percent. Heart rate: fifty beats per minute_.

“You think I won’t thundara your ass!?”

“We’re in a metal box, genius. Try it.”

 _Thirteen percent. Twenty beats per minute_.

“Did you just _bite_ me?”

 _Twenty-two percent._ It had been over a minute since Prompto’s last breath. His pulse was becoming difficult to palpate.

“Marshal,” Ignis murmured. He didn’t want Noctis to hear, fearing what the prince might do if the situation became more desperate than it already was.

Cor ignored him, his gaze fixed on the screen.

“I can’t believe you bit me!”

“I’ll do more than bite you if you don’t let me go!”

 _Thirty-one percent_. Was the sequence slowing? …Perhaps just Ignis’s imagination.

“Marshal,” Ignis said, sharper this time.

Cor’s jaw was clenched tight, the only outward sign that this was affecting him also.

 _Thirty-nine_.

Ignis unapologetically crowded Cor’s space to place his fingers against Prompto’s neck, only to confirm his findings – or lack of same – from the wrist.

Swearing, Ignis cupped the back of Prompto’s head, pushing at his shoulder until he was lying on his back.

“Careful of the connection,” Cor muttered, his only concession to the life-or-death issue at hand.

“If he doesn’t breathe it won’t matter, will it?” Ignis snapped.

The position was terrible, but moving Prompto any further than he already had would increase the risk of tragedy, so Ignis climbed up on the bed, straddling the lifeless body of his friend.

He hadn’t considered the designation before. It was, quite frankly, ridiculous to classify someone he had barely just met as such, but Prompto had entered their lives like a hurricane of anxiety and sunshine smiles, and Ignis was finding himself unaccountably emotional at the prospect of him leaving them, altogether too soon for his liking.

He leant in, pinching Prompto’s nose, forming a seal with their lips, and breathing briskly into his mouth twice, before interlacing his fingers and beginning compressions of his chest. He met a deal more resistance than expected – _damn this monster musculature!_ – but persisted with all his might. The bed compartment had barely enough headroom for him to sit upright, let-alone put all his weight behind his actions. At least the mattress was stiff as a board and gave enough resistance for his efforts to be worthwhile.

His glasses slipped down his nose at each jerking compression, so when Ignis paused to breathe for Prompto again, he pulled them off completely and tossed them aside to clatter on the floor.

As he returned to his compressions, Ignis noticed Cor moving in his periphery, silently taking Prompto’s head and supporting it, ensuring the jerking motions of the compressions didn’t dislodge the cabling. The fingers of his other hand rested over the carotid as Ignis’ had before.

Ignis met eyes with the marshal, and what he saw in their depths had him redoubling his efforts.

“Seventy percent,” Cor muttered.

Ignis was breathing hard, sweat dripping from his brow and stinging his eyes. He felt his arms trembling with fatigue – _Ridiculous to be beaten so soon. Come **on** , Scienta!_

Then Gladio was there, Noct pressing close behind, face sickly pale with fury and fear. They had been in countless CPR exercises together during training, and so wordlessly, at his next assisted breath, Ignis slid from the bed, making room for Gladio to take his place, the pair barely breaking rhythm.

Gladio couldn’t fit in the booth the way Ignis had, so made do with half-crouching at the lad’s side, one knee balanced on the mattress between Prompto’s legs. He pressed once, paused to readjust his strength in the face of the young man’s unique anatomy, then went to it with vigour.

Free from his compression duties, Ignis turned toward Prompto’s head to resume his breaths, but was stopped by Cor’s hand.

“You’ve not got any spare,” Cor grunted, a brow raised when Ignis made to protest. Without further argument the marshal leant in to breathe precious air into Prompto’s lungs; leaving Ignis to fall back against the opposite wall, arms hanging on his bent knees, wheezing like he’d just completed a marathon.

Without his glasses he couldn’t even see the camera screen. Before Ignis could start to look for them, they appeared in his hand, Noct giving him only a second’s notice before turning back to Prompto.

Ignis put the glasses on, squinting his right eye to compensate for the blurring caused by a crack at the side of the lens.

_Ninety-two percent._

_Ninety-five._

_Ninety-nine._

The number had barely ticked over to one-hundred before Ignis was lunging for the camera, tapping out the disconnect sequence as fast as his trembling hands would allow him.

The camera screen went black, then booted up once more. Noct’s smiling face looked out at them, peace sign in soft focus.

Cor muttered a quiet curse, dropping his fingers from Prompto’s neck and resuming his breaths.

Thirty seconds passed.

One minute.

Two.

Ignis found himself staring blankly at the two men working on his friend’s body; a passive observer to tragedy, too fatigued to even pretend a more useful role.

Noctis was pacing, an elixir ready in his hand. It would do no good, if Prompto’s heart refused to beat.

“There.”

Gladio paused, watching Cor intently, his hands still in position over Prompto’s chest.

They waited, tense as a wire, while the marshal’s fingers rested, feather-light and steady, against their friend’s carotid.

Cor’s tense shoulders relaxed minutely, and let his hand fall away with a nod. Even without it, with the compressions halted, Ignis could see the slow rise and fall of Prompto’s chest.

Noct leapt forward with the elixir, but before he could smash it against their friend’s body, Prompto’s eyes snapped open.

His gaze flickered from Cor, to Gladio, then to Ignis and Noct – all frozen in place – and back to Gladio, who still loomed over him, arms resting without pressure against his chest. Then something in the lad went cold and shuttered, his body loosening into a sham of irresistance, in what was a distressingly controlled and _practiced_ manner. It was almost as if he had been connected back up to the camera, barely any sign of life or emotion left within him, though his eyes remained open this time.

Gladio pulled back so quickly it was as if the contact was suddenly burning him. Still he made sure to telegraph his movements, a complicated expression on his face likely matching his emotions within. But then Noct was there, pushing past Gladio and Cor to grab Prompto in a hug, elixir dissolving back into the Armiger in a scatter of blue crystals.

Had he enough breath to do so, Ignis might have cautioned the prince against such a tactic and its potentially disastrous consequences. As it was, it had the effect of snapping Prompto out of whatever dissociative pattern he had been falling into, and not eliciting an aggressive defensive response as Ignis had feared it might.

“Um… hey?” Prompto said, one hand coming up to cautiously pat the prince’s back.

“It is good to see you back amongst the living, Prompto,” Ignis said, sincerely. He took out a handkerchief from his shirt pocket and mopped at his brow.

“Are you ok?” Noct demanded. “You feel ok, right?”

“Never better, bud!” Prompto looked around them all cautiously from over the prince’s shoulder, and raised a curious brow. “What’d I miss?”

“Matters… escalated somewhat,” Ignis said after a heavy pause, his only concession to what he had just been party to.

Cor, who had sat back when Noctis pushed his way past, was now in the process of removing the memory chip from the camera’s inner workings. Once done, he placed himself directly in front of the lad – most likely marking himself as the favourable target in case Prompto decided to attack.

“I made a copy of your hard drive,” he said, without any preamble, “It look longer than was ideal. We had to resuscitate you.”

Prompto’s face screwed up in confusion.

Ignis braced himself, waiting for the tears, the betrayal, the self-reproach; for Prompto’s withdrawal back into himself.

“Oh. That’s…” Prompto frowned, “…that was kind’ve a dick move, Marshal.”

The four of them stared at him in shock.

“ _Yeah_ ,” Noct said vehemently, recovering first out of the lot of them and pulling away from his hug to glare at Cor, “It _really_ was.”

“I mean, it’s different than reprogramming. You can do a copy without disabling me,” Prompto huffed – _huffed_ – and sat back, his arms crossed as he sat up straight, chin high. “I would’a done it for you no trouble, if you’d asked.”

“There would have been no guarantee that you would have cooperated, or not kept some of the data concealed in some way,” Cor said, his face impassive. Gladio, on the other hand, looked as stricken as Ignis felt.

“Uh, yeah, ‘cause I’ve been so _secretive_ and _noncompliant_ so far,” Prompto grumbled, looking away and pouting, “but I guess it’s easier to ask forgiveness than permission, huh?”

“I’m not asking for your forgiveness,” Cor said.

They locked eyes for a long, steely moment. Then Prompto flushed, shoulders slackening, and dropped his gaze.

“Uncool,” he mumbled at the bedsheets.

Ignis was impressed. Impressed and… more than a little suspicious. He caught sight of Noctis, who was clearly struggling not to smirk at his best friend “ _tearing Cor the Immortal a new one_ ” as he would later put it.

Though he was likewise glad that Prompto was capable of defending himself in this matter, Ignis found himself wondering as to the fairly miraculous change in him.

“Hmm,” he mused, his tone heavy with enough suspicion to draw Prompto’s attention.

“Wh-what?” Prompto asked, looking incredibly guilty. A poker player he was not.

“You seem to be rather more outspoken than was previously the case,” Ignis said, archly.

“Oh _that_?” Prompto waved his concern away, though the effect was marred by the light sheen of sweat which gathered at his temples. “It’s no biggie… I just thought while we were in there that I might as well, like, deactivate some of the other processes that were kinda in the way, y’know?”

“What other processes?” Cor asked, sharply. He had stepped back during their exchange, tucking the memory chip away into a pocket, but now his attention was fully on Prompto once more.

“Uh,” Prompto rubbed at the back his neck, the colour rising on his cheeks. “Nothing much, just some inhibitory processes. It wasn’t like they were doing much anyway.”

“You want to elaborate, kid?”

Prompto was practically scarlet, and squirming with embarrassment.

“ _Myobedienceprocesses_ ,” he said, directing his answer to the caravan wall, “…but like I said, it wasn’t like they were working properly on me anyway, so I just thought I might as well deactivate them. ‘sides, I don’t want to run the risk that they might suddenly kick in if we ever meet the Empire and I like, go on a murderous rampage or something.”

“Would these _“Obedience_ _Processes”_ have any safeguarding functions, by any chance?” Cor demanded, his voice barely controlled, “Functions, for instance, that might have prevented you from harming _humans_?”

Ignis felt his blood run cold.

Ah.

 _Damn_.

Prompto looked around their shocked, staring faces, and gave a nervous laugh.

“Busted,” he said, his voice a warble, “…But look, if I’m going to be effective at protecting Noct I’ve gotta be able to engage human enemies without any distractions.”

“Distractions?” Ignis heard his own voice, sounding so cold. He couldn’t believe Prompto had deceived them like this. _And he’d fallen for it_.

“Yeah, um, I mean, it’s not like I _couldn’t_ have done it before,” Prom said, his hand tugging distractedly at the long strands of hair at the back of his neck. “The program is only against allied-identified humans, so it probably didn’t affect you guys anyway – though, I guess, the chip doesn’t exactly recognise you as hostile, given it recognises your authority over me, which would be kinda suboptimal if it thought you were my enemies – but uh! _Anyway_ , I’ve always been able to ignore commands or whatever, I just thought it’d be easier to focus on combat without the negative feedback all the time, y’know?”

“Negative…” Noct frowned. “You mean every time you disobey an order or you’re insubordinate, or whatever, it _hurts_ you?”

“Um… yes?” Prompto winced, visibly bracing himself.

“You say the chip recognises us as your superiors?” Ignis sought clarification, feeling numb. “Do you mean to say that any human holds immediate authority over MTs?”

“Uh, yeah, I mean, it wouldn’t make sense for a machine to be in charge of people,” Prompto chuckled weakly, as if it were the most reasonable statement ever made. “We’re just tools, dude. Like, you wouldn’t let the Regalia tell you what to do, right?”

Once again, the four “humans” found themselves staring at Prompto in abject dismay.

“What the _fuck_ , Prom!” Noct threw up his hands, beginning to pace the small interior of the caravan like a behemoth with a sore tooth. He rounded back on the lad after half a circuit.

“What was it, like a shock or something? How bad was it?”

“Er…” Prom dropped his hand, clutching the wrist of his other arm over the barcode, and tucking himself inward just a little, “…You know when you stick your hand in boiling water?”

Noct’s face went carefully blank.

“No.”

“Lucky you,” Prompto grimaced, but there was a hint of a smile there too, even if it was a self-depreciating one. “I guess it felt like just after, when your skin is like, really sensitive but also kinda numb? Only, it’s in my head – o-or my whole body if it’s real bad – and there’s, um, shooting pains and stuff?”

Noct stared at him, his mouth hanging open, and eyes almost as wide.

“Damn, kid,” Gladio grunted.

“Urgh!” Noct punched Prompto on shoulder, then countered this by dragging him into another crushing hug.

“You are such a moron,” he growled into the lad’s hair before pushing them apart and holding Prompto at arms’s length. “Seriously, you are the biggest, smartest idiot I know… And you two—” he pulled back, turning to jab his finger toward Cor and Gladio, “— _out_. Prompto needs rest and we’ve got a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”

“You can’t be serious!” Gladio scoffed. “Where are we supposed to sleep?”

“Don’t know, don’t care,” Noct said, pointing to the door, his whole arm extended and rigid. “ _Not_ my problem.”

“You know we haven’t got the cash for another caravan.”

“Yeah, well maybe you should’ve thought about that before you went and committed _war crimes_ , _Crownsguard_.”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“Better than being an asshole like you. Out. Now. Don’t make me order you… or do you only follow orders from your _sworn regent_ when it suits you?”

Gladio sighed heavily, throwing up his hands in capitulation. He didn’t show much emotion, but Ignis knew the last comment had stung.

“Fine. Fine, we’re going.”

Cor said nothing, but a raised brow was enough to convey his thoughts on the matter. Still, he followed the shield out without complaint.

Noct’s narrowed eyes followed their movements. When they had gone what he apparently judged as a safe enough distance outside, he jumped up, coming to the doorway to shout after them:

“And don’t even _think_ about sleeping in the Regalia!”

Gladio’s protest, though loud, was indecipherable to Ignis’s ears.

“ _NOT MY PROBLEM!_ ” Noct shouted, and slammed the door closed. He stood, glaring at the metalwork for a while, fists clenched.

Ignis cleared his throat.

“What?” Noct snapped, whirling around, “Going to tell me that was an overreaction?”

“On the contrary, Highness,” Ignis said smoothly, “Had you not spoken up I would have likely insisted upon similar measures.”

“I’m mad at you too, you know,” Noct grumbled.

Ignis tried not to let his own self-reproach and bone weariness show on his face. Such censure was at the bare minimum of what he deserved.

“Understandable,” he said, standing and fighting back a groan as his recently abused muscles protested loudly, his arms trembling with fatigue. His sweat-damp shirt was cooling unpleasantly against his skin but he ignored it. He hoped he could catch up with Gladio and the marshal before the pair left for a campsite. Or perhaps not. Ignis did not relish the prospect of spending the night in their company after what had just transpired.

“Hey, no,” Noct said, mouth dipping into a frown. “I didn’t mean—” he huffed out a frustrated sigh, looking away and pouting. “I’m not _that_ mad at you... Stay.”

The plea sounded so much like Noct’s younger self, when begging Ignis to keep him company after a nightmare, or particularly challenging day of rehabilitation, that Ignis couldn’t help the fond smile that tugged at his lips.

Now, as then, he could only give one answer:

“As you wish, my prince.”

~

Later, when all three of them were showered and settled in their beds – Noct insisting on sharing with Prompto again, with few but token protests from the lad – Ignis was dragged from the precipice of sleep by a snigger coming from the mass of blankets containing the pair.

“Might I enquire as to what is so amusing as to keep you from sleep, Highness?”

Noct’s muted laughter floated out of the darkness, full of juvenile humour. There was no noise from Prompto; likely he was already asleep.

_Ignis was going to regret asking, wasn’t he?_

“You and Cor…” Another muffled laugh. “…Guess you’re kissing cousins now.”

“Kissing…?” Ignis frowned up at the dark ceiling. Trying to make sense of his prince when he was in such a mood always proved challenging, but what—

“Oh, for the love of—! Prince Noctis, that is _hardly_ appropriate!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I call this chapter the "excessive-drama-between-two-slices-of-humor-to-numb-the-pain sandwich" :D


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for bad puns, panic attacks, and very minor body horror
> 
> (For those who asked, yes, Prom is mostly wearing his regular outfits and hairstyle. His arms aren't all that scarred up comparitively to the rest of his body or other hunters, so he doesn't stand out enough to warrant the others getting him to cover up - T x)

Ignis was in pain.

He hadn’t said anything but Prompto knew the signs. He held himself too stiffly, walked with a little too much care.

The low groan he’d given when sitting up from his bed earlier, when he’d thought Noct and Prompto out of earshot, was also a pretty good indicator.

Yesterday evening when Ignis had been in the shower, Noct had filled Prom in some more on what’d happened while he was out of commission.

Prom’d wondered why his chest had been hurting. Saying so to Noct had gotten him a scowl, a reminder to speak up about any injuries – _yes, **any** injuries,_ _I don’t care if it’s “nowhere close to the worst you’ve had”, that doesn’t make me feel better **at all**_ , _dude_ , _what the hell?_ –, and a potion.

Prompto wished he’d saved some of the potion for Ignis’s aching muscles. It must have taken a huge effort to get enough depth out of the compressions to be effective. One of them – let’s face it: _Gladio_ – had even managed to crack a few ribs, by the way he’d felt.

Ignis had been in the shower this morning for a long while, and now emerged looking barely improved.

“Whoa, going for a new look today, Specs?” Noct asked. He and Prompto were in the camper’s small kitchen area making breakfast, which Ignis had remarked on when informed of the situation was a “welcome surprise”. Prompto wasn’t sure what was so surprising about preparing a meal, but could tell the advisor appreciated the morning off from cooking all the same.

With their limited supplies – _Noct had glared at him when Prompto’d been about to apologise again for that_ – they could apparently only really make one item: ‘Scrambled Eggs On Toast’.

There wasn’t a guide or manual on how to prepare the food, and Noct’s instructions were… rudimentary; his cooking style far more spontaneous than what Prompto’d observed of Ignis’s cooking. But he was glad to even be allowed to help at all, considering how vehemently Noct had seemed to be against either he or Ignis doing any work that morning. Prompto had pleaded just as strongly to be involved – he was amazingly grateful he could even do so now without the constant negative feedback for countermanding orders – and Noct had finally relented.

Ignis’s hair was fluffy and unstyled, but he didn’t reach up to it self-consciously, as Prompto might have done under the circumstances. (He’d spent a _long_ time that morning recreating the style he’d produced the previous day; still loving the pliability and endless creative potential of hair in general, and his in particular.)

Ignis made a noncommittal sound as he took up a can of Ebony, hesitating only slightly before lifting it to his lips.

“Want me to style it for you?” Prompto offered. “Your arms hurt, right?”

Beside him, Noct’s head swivelled sharply toward his retainer; who smiled back at Prom warmly.

“Thank you, Prompto, but no. I do find myself unable to raise my arms above my head, but after a round of stretches I’m certain I shall be much improved.”

“You sure? It’s the least I can do after… y’know.”

“While I appreciate your concern, Prompto, I don’t—”

Noct made a sound of frustrated distress, and slammed the spoon he was using to stir the egg mixture down onto the counter, spattering the surface with eggy goo.

“For Astrals’ sake! And Gladio bitches at me for _my_ martyr complex. Just let him do your frigging hair, Iggy.”

Ignis looked very much like he was trying not to smile.

“As Your Highness commands,” he said, bowing, but halted, wincing, after bending only a short distance.

Noct picked up the spoon, huffily, pointing it at his advisor and then the door.

“ _After_ stretches. If I’ve gotta do ‘em, then you do too.”

“What’s good for the goose, eh?” Ignis chuckled, leaving the caravan without further ado.

Noct caught Prompto smiling at him and narrowed his eyes.

“What?”

“You’re such a mother hen.”

“Wh—? Am NOT!”

“Dude, you are too,” Prompto grinned. He hopped up onto a clean part the counter, watching the prince moodily stir the eggs, his legs swinging casually against the worktop. “You guys are all like a big family... It’s neat, y’know.”

“Yeah, well, you’re part of this family now,” Noct grumbled, still pouting at the eggs, “So don’t be complaining when Iggy mothers you to death.”

Prompto had to pause for a moment to work past the knot that had suddenly formed in his throat. He blinked rapidly – determined he was going to make it through at least _one_ entire day without crying dammit! – and looked up at the nicotine-stained caravan roof until he could trust himself to speak.

“Hey, dude, no complaints here!” he said, as sunnily as he could mimic, “Haircuts, gourmet meals, a cool new ‘fit, _and_ luxury housing? I’m all about the family life, man.”

“Pfft, “luxury housing”,” Noct rolled his eyes dramatically. “I can’t wait for you to see Galdin Quay.” He jerked his thumb toward the toaster. “The egg’s almost done. Come on, Number Two, no lollygagging. That bread isn’t going to cook itself. Make it so.”

“Pfft, sure thing, nerd.”

Prompto hopped down from the counter and set about the business of turning the bread into toast. He wasn’t certain why food that had already been cooked needed to be cooked again, but was willing to trust Noct’s experience on this one.

“So, what was the marshal going on about yesterday, anyway? What was it, “Royal Arms”?”

“Weapons only people of the Lucian bloodline of kings can wield,” Noct said, directing Prom to the cupboards for plates. “Cor says there’s thirteen known weapons hidden in tombs of past kings, and it’s my duty to find them all. Only the tombs are mostly all lost, fallen into legend.”

“Sounds neat! Like some real quest-type stuff.”

“Hmm, yeah,” Noct began ladling out the eggs over the toast that Prompto’d buttered. “I guess. I just can’t help thinking he’s just sending me on a wild goose-chase to keep me busy, y’know?”

“I would give the marshal a little more credit than that before one calls fowl-play,” Ignis said, re-entering the caravan. To _his_ credit, he did seem to be walking a little less stiffly than before, so Prompto assumed the stretching must have helped.

Noct groaned. “It’s like, way too early for your puns, Specs.”

“I dunno, I think he’s just winging it,” Prompto said, holding out a plate to the advisor and giving him a cheery wink.

Ignis’s face brightened. “Ah, a man of culture.” 

Taking up his and Noctis’s plates, Prompto followed the man back outside to the table. “Just keeping the mood light, Iggy. Noct was starting to get a little down in the mouth.”

“We can’t have that. Wouldn’t want our prince in a flap.”

Noct snorted, shaking his head as he fell into his chair. “Birds of a feather, huh? Come on, I’m starved. Let’s eat.”

“Agreed,” Ignis brandished his fork, “I am rather peckish myself.”

~

The walk to Keycatrich Trench had to be some of the most awkward few hours of Prompto’s life.

Prom was trying to pretend that nothing had happened. Noct was trying to pretend that Cor and Gladio didn’t exist. Everyone was very deliberately _not_ talking about the catoblepas in the room. Cor would give directions, which only Gladio and Ignis would reply to, or Noctis would address only by way of Ignis and Prom. Gladio was silent, for the most part, and looked like a thundercloud had settled on his head.

They’d allowed Prompto a weapon at least – even if it was only a knife – which was fortunate, given the amount of enemies they encountered along the way. Cor had instructed him not to engage unless they were pressed, which was rare, but at the first Imperial drop ship he finally addressed Prompto directly.

“Well, looks like you’ve got your chance to test out that program of yours, kid. Up front.”

Prom caught the tightness in Noct’s expression, but forced himself to give a cheery smile.

“We shall back you up, Prompto,” Ignis said, calmly, “The field is yours.”

In the end backup wasn’t particularly necessary. Prompto might not have reached L3 but he still knew his stuff. Without his suit he was faster, more agile, able to dodge and roll away from attacks with relative ease. Added to this was the benefit of being able to improvise – a skill that was _literally_ manufactured out of the MT units – and Prompto was able to sweep across the battlefield like a scourge. Sure, not having a firearm made it more challenging, but the knife was plenty enough to get the job done.

When the last MT fell, Prompt turned back to Noct and the rest, wiping the sweat from his brow and leaving an oil-slick in its place.

“Whew, man, that was a bit harder than my last simulation!” he chirped, “Sure works up an appetite, though!”

Cor grunted; another of those (possibly approving?) noises. He picked his way through the debris to continue their walk.

“That wasn’t a bad effort, Prompto,” he said, as he passed.

Prom watched the marshal’s retreating back, mouth open, arms hanging slack. Despite their beef, the man was a fearsome fighter, and approval from him felt... pretty damn sweet.

“Whoa. I just got praised by the Immortal,” he said, grinning at the other three.

Ignis and Gladio looked amused, as he’d hoped they would, but Noct’s expression was still a little sour. The prince opened his mouth to say something, but was cut off by the marshal calling back:

“Don’t take that as leave to slack off. You’re only as good as your last battle.”

Prompto winced as Noct’s mouth slammed shut, his eyes flashing fiery daggers at the man’s back.

“Er, yes, sir,” he said hurriedly, resisting the urge to salute, “I’ll keep at it, sir.”

“That was a commendable performance,” Ignis said, as they walked on. He handed Prompto a water bottle and snack bar from their supplies, which Prom tucked into eagerly.

He’d been wary when Ignis has offered another such bar earlier on, the shape of it reminding him of the nutrition cubes; but these were packed with flavour and textures. Nuts, he’d discovered, like most _actual_ foods, were delicious.

They’d established during breakfast that Prompto’s nutritional requirements were approximately half as much again as a regular human his age, probably due to the extra musculature burning off fuel. Iggy’s solution had been regular high-protein snacks, taken between meals – which was way more interesting than the slow-release micro-particles contained in the nutrition liquid back at the facility... if less efficient.

“I saw you focusing on particular areas in your attack,” Ignis said. “Would you mind instructing us on an MT’s weak points?”

Prompto did, gladly. Anything to fill the oppressive silence. He might have rambled on for a good while longer than necessary, but no-one objected.

It was a pack of sabertusks in the end, which broke the deadlock. 

“Ugh, not _these_ guys again,” Noct grimaced in disgust.

“What’s the matter, princess?” Gladio smirked, “You still nursing your dignity?”

“Shut it, Gladiolus. I’m still not talking to you.”

“Noct’s right, tho,” Prompto said, turning to wink at Gladio, “…these beasts can be a pain in the ass.”

Gladio guffawed loudly.

“ _Dude_ ,” Noct huffed, shooting Prom a look of betrayal.

Prom responded with a beaming smile. “Don’t worry, man; they’re tough, but I’m sure we can get to the bottom of it.”

“DUDE!”

“They certainly do have some cheek,” Ignis chimed in.

“You guys are the _worst_!”

Cor cleared his throat meaningfully. “If you’re all quite done? Let’s focus.”

“Apologies, Marshal,” Ignis said, immediately serious as he summoned his lance.

Prompto and Noct shared a look and rolled their eyes, Noct biting off a smile despite the teasing he’d just endured.

“Good,” Cor turned, advancing on the pack. “Let’s get this over with so we can put them all _behind_ us.”

Noct stopped still, his mouth hanging open. Then he whirled on Gladio, who was trying to keep upright despite his sudden wheezing fit.

“YOU TOLD THE MARSHAL?!?”

“Hey, we had a lot of free time last night,” Gladio snarked, composing himself with effort. He hefted his greatsword with a challenging sparkle in his eye, and took a charge at the nearest sabertusk.

“NOT. COOL,” Noct bawled after him, back rigid with mortification and fists thrust down at his side, “AND I’M _STILL_ NOT TALKING TO YOU.”

The mood lightened after that.

A little while later Prompto caught a snippet of conversation from Ignis and Gladio, who had dropped back to hold their peace talks. Or rather, Gladio had dropped back to force the issue out of Ignis, who had been avoiding him the whole morning.

Prompto wondered briefly if he should be listening in, but it wasn’t like he could _not_ hear them, and sticking his fingers in his ears would’ve been kinda rude.

“You still sore?” Gladio was asking.

“Are you referring to my physical or emotional state?” Ignis replied, sounding snippy.

“Both? ...Saw the way you pulled that last block, you should focus on your daggers next fight, the polearm’s a bit on the heavy side for fatigued muscles.”

Prompto heard Ignis sigh forcefully.

“In answer to your question, I am still angry with your actions from yesterday, yes.”

“Sure you’re not just angry at yourself?”

“I am quite capable of multi-tasking, Gladiolus. Allow me the courtesy of a little self-reflection.”

The shield didn’t speak, and after a while Ignis sighed once more. This time it was more weary than angry.

“That I was simply obeying a superior’s orders is the excuse of the unprincipled,” he said, “I could have opposed the marshal, but I didn’t. I’m still trying to decide whether it was out of necessity or cowardice.”

“Hey, you said yourself. You’re capable of multi-tasking.”

There was a moment’s heavy silence.

“Do me a favour, if you would, Gladio. Please allow _yourself_ some self-reflection, also. Because if you ever defy Prince Noctis again, I shan’t forgive you.”

“Iggy, don’t tell Noct this, ‘cause I’ll deny the hell out of it; but I won’t forgive _myself_ , either.”

Prompto was jerked back to his own surroundings by a sharp nudge to his side. Noct was flashing him a worried smile.

“How you holding up, there, bud?”

“I’m great!” Prompto said, perhaps a little too exuberantly, given the way the marshal turned to glance at them from up ahead. He cleared his throat, turning the enthusiasm, and his volume, down a notch.

“Seriously, dude. I’m doing fine. It’s amazing to just, _walk_ , y’know? And helping you guys? I’m just glad I can be useful.”

“You don’t have to feel obliged,” Noct said, his mouth turning down slightly at the corners. “I mean it. Even if you never fought again, settled down and lived the good life on a ranch, or in the city, or whatever, I’d still treat you exactly the same. You’re my best friend, not a weapon.”

“How about both?” Prompto grinned at his private joke. “...I’m serious, dude. I get what you’re saying and I’m, like, super grateful, but I want to help.” He paused, turning his head up at the grey sky and, not for the first time, contemplated his motives.

“I think I _need_ to help,” he said after a while, “It’s one of the reasons I deactivated the obedience modules; I have the choice to do whatever I want now, so what I _do_ choose to do matters, y’know?”

Noct grinned and slapped him on the back, then slid his hand up to Prompto’s shoulder to squeeze it. “Yeah, bud, I get it. Glad to have you along.”

“Could you...” Prompto took a breath. “Could you please, like, ease up on Cor?” he said quickly, in case he chickened out, “I get you’re pissed, and I was too, but I understand why he did what he did, and I’m not mad any more. Well, not _much_. The war is bogus and I’d do everything I could to end it too, in his boots.”

Noct dropped his hand away from him, shoving both into his pockets as he hunched up. He whined exaggeratedly, but not so loud that the man could hear: “But he’s such a douuuche.”

Prompto tried not to let the loss of contact feel like a sanction, but wasn’t very successful.

“I dunno, man, maybe you just don’t like being the _butt_ of the jokes?” he said, keeping the strain out of his voice, and elbowing Noct in the side enough to stagger him.

“Oh, it’s _on_ , superfreak!” Noct, wrapped his arm around Prom’s neck, pulling him down and grinding his knuckles into the top of his head.

“Arrrgh! Nononono! Dude! Not the do! _Not the do!_ ”

~

They were nearing the Trench when a more formidable enemy appeared.

“Magitek armour,” Ignis said, grimly.

“Aw man, Veles,” Prompto groaned, sinking to a crouch on the floor, arms resting in bent knees as he hung his head. This was the most prolonged activity he’d had in a while. _Thank the Astrals for chocobo stamina!_

Noctis looked between them. “Dangerous?”

“This particular model poses a mild to moderate threat—” Ignis began.

“The short version.”

“...Somewhat dangerous.”

Prompto sighed. Veles _sucked_.

“Any pertinent strategies you’d care to share, Prompto?” Ignis asked.

“Uhh, they’re weak to electricity like most other mechanical units. Other than that, their joints are their weak spots so it’s good to get in at them with finer weapons like knives,” Prompto looked over to Gladio. “Greatswords are good too though. If you can knock ‘em down we can get in at the workings underneath without having to dodge the guns.”

“I guess a warpstrike might work too, then,” Noct mused. Then he cleared his throat carefully.

“Marshal... you’d have to be pretty badass to take that down, right?”

Cor looked both surprised and very slightly relieved to be addressed by the prince.

“Think you’re up to it?” he said, folding his arms and raising his brows in challenge, “Let’s see what you can do.”

Prompto counted that as a win.

A warpstrike _did_ work. Noct and Gladio worked on knocking the units over, while Prompto and Ignis attacked the joints with their knives, Ignis utilising his elemancy to great effect. Cor ducked in and out when needed, but mostly hung back, watching the four work.

It only occurred to Prompto at the last moment that he’d left one crucial bit of information out of his earlier explanation.

“Oh sh— Watch out fellas. They explode when they’re defeated!”

“What?!” Gladio shouted, over the steadily increasing whine of the Veles.

“Theyexplodewhenthey’re— _oh shit!_ ”

After the four had picked themselves up off the ground and dusted themselves off; Cor approached, a half-smile on his lips.

“You alright, Highness?” he asked, sounding smug.

Noctis adopted an unaffected air, flicking a last piece of rubble from his jacket lapel.

“Of course.”

Gladio eyed the marshal’s near spotless uniform. “And you, Marshal?” he asked, tone heavy with sarcasm.

Cor’s smile grew wider.

“No problem.” He looked over at the remaining scraps of the Veles.

“Not bad. You’ve come a long way.”

“Praise from the marshal is praise indeed,” Ignis said, without a hint of sarcasm.

Cor looked back at them. Specifically, Prompto.

“Prompto, you okay?” he asked.

Prom blinked.

“Uh... yes... sir. I’m fine, sir.”

Noct snorted. “Don’t believe him, Marshal.”

“Hey! Noct, bud, that’s, like, totally uncalled for. I’m fine. Look, not a scratch!”

“Lies. I can see you bruising from here.”

“Pfft, that’s not fair, you can see my veins from _space_ , dude. I’m not exactly tan, yanno?”

They bickered the rest of the way.

Prompto thought he caught the marshal smiling at one point, but it was gone before he could be sure.

~

“This is where we go our separate ways,” Cor said as they finally came to the entrance to the Trench.

“Take this key. It unlocks the doors to the other tombs. Seek them out and lay claim to the power they hold... You’ll need it.”

Noct caught the key the marshal tossed him.

“And what will you do?” he asked. 

“Keep an eye on the Niffs. Find out what they’re up to,” Cor inspected the landscape, as if the Empire was going to leap up out of the earth at any moment, then returned his gaze to the group, “But you should focus on your own task.”

Noct sighed, but gave what Prompto guessed was a genuine smile.

“I will... You take care.”

Cor gave a formal nod, and saluted Noct. His expression was as guarded as usual, but Prompto thought he could see a modicum of respect in there too.

They watched the marshal depart, Prompto at least with a mixture of relief and concern.

“Will he be ok?” he asked, chewing his lip.

“The marshal?” Noct snorted, “He’ll be fine.”

It didn’t take long after entering the maze that Prompto realised he was _not_ fond of enclosed spaces, and _definitely_ not the prospect of those spaces becoming suddenly, mortally, smaller.

“Don’t like the look of that ceiling,” he muttered, hunching his shoulders as if that would somehow help against untold tonnes of crushing rock.

Gladio glanced up at the cracked rocks above them.

“Yeah, long overdue for some TLC.”

Noct was busy investigating a caved-in side tunnel, but at that moment the ceiling above began to shake, loose dirt falling from it in a fine mist.

“Whoa!” Gladio exclaimed, jumping backwards into the relative safety of the main passage and tugging the prince back with him.

The rumbling went on for a few more seconds before subsiding into an uneasy silence.

Prompto wet his lips, and forced his hands to stop shaking.

“If it’s all the same to you guys… I’d rather not get buried alive,” he said, trying for glib and missing by several thousand tonnes of mountain.

“Yes,” Ignis agreed, grimly, “Let us be quick.”

Things were moving in the shadows. Prompto was beginning to _reaally_ miss his helm’s night vision. Improved visual capacity and accuracy wasn’t worth a damn without the light to see by, and his naga enhancements didn’t extend to that weird gland thing in their head that would have been _super_ useful about now. His nerves were singing, on high alert. Gladio kicking that can had _not_ helped.

He was trying to keep his spirits up with a near-constant babble of chatter and witty comments, but honestly, how many locked doors were they going to find? He knew his talking was getting annoying, going by the shorter and less agreeable replies he was receiving, so settled on counting to one hundred between each break in the silence to try and keep himself distracted.

“I can feel eyes on us…” he muttered at eighty-four, his own eyes darting around to every shadowed corner of the corridor. “...The second we turn our backs, BAM!”

Gladio snorted. “Quit being a wuss.”

They had reached another collapsed part of the tunnels, but this one had a crawl-height space that Prompto really didn’t want to go through.

Noct was totally gonna go through it.

“It’s safe, right?” Prom asked, trying and failing to make himself sound less like a total wuss.

Gladiolus shrugged. “I dunno.”

“Reeeeal helpful, bud.”

Noct totally went through the gap.

Ignis followed straight after. Gladio waited on Prompto, his arms folded and eyebrow raised, a half-beat away from talking smack.

Prompto took a deep breath, and followed his prince.

To be fair, the tunnel was barely a few feet long; truth be told he could see the exit from where he’d been standing. When he came out the other side, Prom realised they had looped back on themselves to the other side of one of those locked gates.

“Hey, didn’t we already—?” he started.

Then the goblins attacked.

Prompto screamed.

He tried to regain some dignity after that, but it was a losing battle. First the lights went out, and they were attacked by more goblins. Then _more_ goblins jumped out of a friggin’ well. _W-T-actual-F?_ _Who does that??_

They’d had to crawl through another partially-collapsed tunnel, and now Prompto was staring at a pair of metal doors which were wedged open barely a foot wide.

He watched as Noct just casually turned sideways and began to shuffle his way through. The light on his torch was blocked by its proximity to the wall, casting the prince into ghostly refrain; utter darkness beyond.

Ignis followed again straight after, like it was no big deal at all.

And it probably wasn’t to them, Prompto realised. And if it wasn’t a problem for Noctis, then it _definitely_ wasn’t going to be a problem for Prompto.

He took a deep, steadying breath, and got in the damn gap.

It didn’t go well.

Touching the surface was a mistake. The first brush of his fingertips against metal and Prompto was back in his pod. The light didn’t help, so bright he couldn’t see anything ahead. Metal was against his back and arms (why had he chosen to cut the sleeves off this jacket? Just cause his biceps wouldn’t fit though them was _not_ a good enough reason.

Stupid snake arms.

Prompto squeezed his eyes closed tight enough that spots flashed across his vision. The pod’s darkness had been absolute, so dark you could see the colours dancing in the black, little motes of speckled light, like very distant stars. Prompto had tried to keep himself entertained through those sleepless hours, squeezing eyes tight to make the lights flash and sparkle.

It had never been enough.

…It is never enough.

He leans his forehead against the cool metal, sucking in a sharp, rust-tinged breath. Approximately eight-thousand hours; though if he cares to access his hard drive further he can get the exact time, down to the millisecond. Eight thousand hours in a soundless, lightless, soulless metal tube. He’s spent roughly 1% of the equivalent time in freedom, and has already lived a thousand-thousand lifetimes more than any of his brothers still locked away back at the base. His poor brothers, alone in the dark.

He tries opening his eyes, but the intense light from the torch just sends him under one of _His_ spotlights, always too bright, glinting off the edge of the scalpel blade as it’s lowered toward his face. He can’t move. Mustn’t move. _He’ll_ be angry if Prompto moves. It’s always worse after that. Stay still. Pain is temporary. Less pain now or more pain later. Easy choice. Just relax. Let his mind slip into that space in between one breath and another. It’s not him on the table. Just another MT body. Prom’s in Insomnia. In a garden with a dark-haired boy and a white-furred dog.

The scalpel cuts into skin. Threatens to drag him back from his place of not-being. It scores clinically down Prompto’s face, splitting him wide open. No. It’s 05953234’s skin. Just another MT body, and MT’s don’t feel pain.

He’s an MT.

He’s MT.

 _Empty_ —

A hand falls on his arm, just below the shoulder. Skin on skin.

It’s warm. Rough. Uncompromisingly present.

“Deep breaths, kid, remember? In for four, out for eight.”

The hand is shaking. No. _Prompto_ is shaking. There are tears in his eyes but they haven’t yet fallen. He _isn’t_ going to cry.

“Hey, Prompto, think you can move your right leg?” the voice asks, “Just a couple’a inches to the side. See, there you go, easy as pie. Now how about your left leg? ...You’re doing great, kiddo. Remember your breathing. In, one... two... three...”

The hand on his arm moves with him, following Prompto as he shuffles achingly slowly along. Prompto can’t open his eyes but he can _feel_ the hand. Lets it be an anchor for him. Lets the voice be a wall - a _shield_ \- against the coeurl of his memories.

He moves his right leg again and suddenly there isn’t any pressure against his back, just the sweet, blessed relief of space.

Prompto stumbles out and into the chamber in a rush. Then it’s like his legs have lost all power. He sinks to the ground. Gladio tightens his grip on his arm, the other hand flat against his chest as his world threatens to tilt forward; and controls the fall. The hand on his chest leaves once Prom is sat down, but the one on his arm just moves to his back, resting there with comforting solidity.

His head hangs between his hunched shoulders. He presses his hands against the rough surface of the floor – feels the rock and dirt there; a coldness that isn’t at all the same as soulless metal.

In for four, out for eight.

“That was well done, Prompto,” he hears Ignis saying. He doesn’t understand. He's done nothing to warrant praise. He doesn’t think a response is required, so he ignores him.

In for four, out for eight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, some of the dialogue is pulled directly from the game here. I hope I got it sounding natural enough! Lemme know what you think! T x


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw/ for minor blood and gore and descriptions of past trauma in this chapter folks!

_How could Ignis have missed it?_

He crouched down beside their stricken comrade and watched him slowly return to his self. Noct hovered nearby, looking anxious, and angry, and sad.

Ignis didn’t blame him; he was feeling like a heel himself. All the way through this maze Prompto had been signalling loud and clear that he was in difficulties, but none of them had bothered to even acknowledge it, let alone help the poor lad.

He didn’t know what evils the close-quarters might have conjured in Prompto’s memory, but that it even got that far without he or Noct noticing was unconscionable. Thank goodness for Gladio, whose strong, reassuring voice had guided their friend through the worst of the attack, back from the very real danger of Prompto hyperventilating himself into a faint. Prompto may very well have suffocated after that, squashed as he had been in the narrow passageway. After everything he had been through, it didn’t bear thinking about.

But think about it Ignis was determined to do. This had been his fault, along with Noctis and Gladio. He had a responsibility to Prompto to bear the thoughts of the potential consequences, and to ensure it would never happen again. The memories of those damp, desperate sobs – amplified and echoed by the metal to ring around the chamber – would stay with him for many a sleepless night, he was certain.

Ignis fished a bottle of water from the armiger and unscrewed the cap. He held it before Prompto and then, when realising his friend still had his eyes tightly closed, guided it into his hands.

“Drink a little water,” he said, making it the softest of commands. “It’s cool; it will hopefully make you feel a little better, at least.”

Slowly, Prompto obeyed, taking measured sips between his calming breaths. After what felt like an age, he cracked open a rueful eye.

“Thanks... Sorry.” He ducked his head away from their worried stares, sallow cheeks dusting a light pink; a relief, after how pale he had been moments before.

“We are the ones who should apologise,” Ignis said, shaking his head sadly. “We have failed you again, Prompto, after you tried so hard. I promise to do better.”

“We _all_ do, bud,” Noct said, crouching down directly in front of his friend and giving Prompto a hesitant smile.

“T-thanks,” Prompto sighed, shaking his head. “Sorry I’m such a wuss.”

“You’re _not_ a wuss,” Noct said fiercely. He took hold of Prompto’s hands as he spoke, encircling the bottle between them.

Ignis saw a trickle of healing magic flow in to infuse the water. Nowhere near powerful enough to be called a potion, given it wasn’t the correct liquid, but as good a pick-me-up as a bar of chocolate, in the circumstances.

Prompto finally met Noct’s eyes, his own creasing at the corners in a sheepish smile.

“Kid, you’re tough as nails,” Gladio said, clapping Prompto firmly on the back, signalling an end to his contact with the lad as he stood. “So, what’s say we finish up in this dump and get back outside, asap?”

“Y-yeah,” Prompto grinned, almost convincingly. He got to his feet, ignoring Noct’s offered hand, then helped the prince up instead. The intent was clear; Prompto could stand on his own and was yet able to be of use to his friends. Ignis couldn’t help the fondness which warmed his chest as Noct, grinning, let himself be hauled upright.

“That’s the spirit,” Ignis said, rising himself and straightening out his jacket; any more of that and it would wrinkle beyond the capabilities of the caravan’s modest iron. A small price to pay, really, for finally being there for his friend.

“Let’s put a wriggle on, gentlemen.”

~

“So I’ve been wondering…” Noctis said, after five minutes of less-than comfortable silence. “We should probably get a better idea of the kinda things that are gonna be off limits for you.”

Prompto stumbled over his feet, Gladio catching his arm before he fell. The passageway was relatively even, and it was likely the prince’s words, rather than the path, which had caused him to loose his footing.

“Huh? M-me?”

“Uh-huh,” Noctis poked his head into a side chamber and then carried onward. “I don’t know about you, bud, but I’d rather not have you put in that kinda position again if there’s something we can do to stop it.”

“Now may not be a good time, Highness,” Ignis said, allowing a hint of sternness into his tone. _Really_ , they were still underground! Asking Prompto to rehash his trauma in this situation was cruel in the extreme, never mind the potential for triggering another attack.

“N-no, I get ya,” Prompto said, before Noct could do more than open his mouth to snap a reply, “You don’t need me going to pieces in the middle of a fight or something.”

“Yeah, but not for the reason you’re thinking of, I bet,” Noct said. He shot their friend a quick, reassuring look, and then deliberately returned his attention to scanning the caves. “I don’t give a damn if you help us fight – though it’s cool as shit watching you tear things apart with that whole ‘ninja assassin’ thing you got going on – I just don’t want you being in danger and not in the right mind to defend yourself, or get out of the way. And I _really_ don’t want you having to go through another panic attack that we could’ve prevented by being just a little more considerate, y’know?”

The look on Prompto’s face indicated that he _didn’t_ know, but Noct continued:

“Dude, you’re with us for the long haul. If it’s gonna help you out, I want to know.”

There was a long pause. The three of them purposely paid Prompto no mind as the lad sought composure. Then, with a quick swipe of his arm across his eyes, Prompto cleared his throat.

“The pods they put us in for sleeping we’re about two foot square. Metal,” he said, his voice just a little too forced to be convincingly calm. “There weren’t any internal lights, so unless the gantry lighting was on and shining through the observation window it was, like, completely black. The, uh, the gantry lights were motion sensored, and the pods weren’t in the main thoroughfare, so they were off most of the time… It was nearly soundproof too; though you could hear vibrations if anyone tapped on the metal... We would be in this, uh, bracing harness to keep us standing upright. It would move about at regular intervals to keep our muscles from atrophying if we were inactive for a while.”

“How long were you usually kept inactive?” Noct’s voice, too, was unconvincingly calm.

“No more than an eight- or twelve- hour resting cycle mostly. But if we were being cargoed, or if the scientists were needed on another project, we’d be shelved for the duration. Umm… the longest was eighty-six days, but that was a real anomaly. I think there’d been a security breach or something.”

“Did you have nothing to stimulate your minds during this time?” Ignis asked, morbid curiosity warring with stunned horror.

“Sometimes there were training programmes,” Prompto said, absently picking at the skin around his fingernails – a few had been blunted and nicked by his scraping at the metal wall during his earlier panic attack; had he been left any longer he would likely have torn more than one off completely. He smiled.

“—but I had Noct, so the time kinda flew by!”

Ignis highly doubted Prompto’s use of the word correlated with their interpretation of it, but did not press for more details.

“So, it was the metal and the small space?” Noct said, “Cause you’ve been in the car and the caravan and didn’t have a problem… _Did_ you have a problem?” he asked, brow creased in a suspicious frown. He sounded ill at the thought. Ignis didn’t blame him.

“No!” Prompto threw up his hands placatingly, but his reassuring smile slipped quickly into a grimace.

“…Uhh… I mean… kinda? But it wasn’t so bad when you guys were there and I could walk about, y’know? …I got used to it.”

They were quiet for a while.

Some goblins attacked. This time, Prompto didn’t scream.

“So, scratch campers off the accommodation list,” Noct said, dismissing his sword and wiping the blood on his hands against his slacks (Ignis glared his disapproval, but was ignored). “Was that everything?”

Prompto bit his lip and looked away.

“Vivisection,” Gladio grunted, making them all startle.

“Excuse me?” Ignis said, hoping very much that Gladio was not on to something.

“You mentioned it during the interrogation,” Gladio said, giving Prompto a flat, no-nonsense look.

Prompto deflated somewhat.

“Y-yeah...”

“Vivi-whatnow?” Noct’s eyes were suspicious. He took a water from the Armiger and cracked it open, taking a few slugs before passing it to Prompto, who drained it in three big gulps.

“Experimentation,” Prompto said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his voice even and steady, “Besi— _He_ would gather data from us every now and then. Most of the time we were in stasis, b-but sometimes that “ _disrupted the neurological feedback systems and corrupted the data_ ”.

“He cut you up?” Gladio said in monotone, “Awake?”

Prompto’s head bobbed in a jerking nod.

Gladio’s fist hit a nearby wall.

After the rumbling and dust had settled, and Gladio had apologised to everyone, Prompto continued.

“I-I guess the brightness of the torch reminded me of the operating lights.”

“So, no bright lights in dark rooms,” Noct said, his voice as sharp as steel. He glared around at their current surroundings.

Prompto, picking up on the prince’s feelings, again raised his hands, palms-out toward him. “H-hey, I’m dealing with it, man. It’s all good. It’s manly to face your fears, right?”

“Now you sound like Gladio,” Noct grumbled.

Gladio huffed and folded his arms across his chest, flexing the muscles there to appear even more imposing – a common tactic when he was feeling defensive.

“Kid,” he said, addressing Prompto, but flickering his glare at Noct briefly also, “When we’re back at camp you and me are going to have a _long_ chat about the dangers of toxic masculinity, understood?”

Prompto gave a startled “eep” and stepped back half a pace, before nodding hesitantly.

“Is there anything else that you can think of which distresses you, Prompto?” Ignis asked. He had been watching the lad carefully for signs he was becoming overwhelmed by the conversation, but so far he was exuding only a mild – understandable – level of discomfort. Prompto was, he noted not for the first time, a remarkably resilient young man.

Ignis fully expected Prompto to demur, but the lad surprised them all once more, even if the word was a half-muted rush, aimed at the tunnel floor.

“Orders.”

“Orders?” Ignis pressed after a moment of silence where Prompto seemed disinclined to continue.

“Y-yeah,” Prompto brought his hand to the back of his neck, just under his port, rubbing ruefully.

“It’s connected to the whole, um, obedience thing.”

“I thought you got rid of that,” Noctis said, sharply. He caught Prompto’s wince at his tone, and then Ignis’s own admonishing stare, and ducked his head.

“Sorry, man. I’m not mad at you, I promise.”

“No problemo, dude,” Prom gave a wobbly smile. He took a steadying breath, eyes briefly closing, and when they opened again he appeared much more centred.

“…I guess it’s cause I’m so used to the feedback and stuff,” he elaborated after another moment’s pause to collect his thoughts (and likely choose his words so as not to cause distress, Ignis guessed), “but it’s still hard to, like, _disobey_. You make something sound like an order, I’m probably gonna follow it, whether I want to or not. I’m probably not even gonna think about _not_ following it, most of the time.”

Gladio’s muttered “ _fuck_ ” put Ignis’s feelings into crude, yet succinct format.

“No orders, then,” Noctis said, his voice strained.

“B-but it’s useful sometimes!” Prompto tried to argue, “If we’re, like, in a fight and you need me to move and—”

“ _No. Orders_ ,” Noct ground out, his teeth and fists clenched. “I’m not going to be like _them_ , Prom, none of us are. _You_ do stuff ‘cause _you_ want to, not because we say so.”

“Uh, ok, buddy, but you _are_ kind of the prince—”

“Doesn’t matter,” Noct put his hands on Prompto’s shoulders, even now taking care so as not to point his body light at the lad’s face. “Prompto, this is important. You don’t ever have to do what anyone else tells you, not if you don’t want to, and especially not if it’s going to hurt you, or put you in danger. If we want you to do something we’ll _ask_ , but if you don’t agree or you don’t want to then that’s ok.”

Ignis could think of several scenarios where this reasoning would decidedly not be “ok”, but he determined to formulate strategies which would circumvent the issue, should they occur. Prompto deserved that much.

Prompto was wiping at his eyes again, and snuffling back his tears.

It seemed that Noctis had grown slightly less awkward in the face of his friend’s tears, because he was almost natural in his movements as he took the lad into an embrace.

Ignis met Gladio’s eyes over the top of their heads, and they exchanged a fond smile. Another little brother, just as delightful as the first – though the times where Noctis acted in such a manner had become sparse in the past few years. Yet another blessing to count upon Prompto’s shoulders.

“That everything?” Noct asked when he eventually pulled away, receiving a steadfast nod and supernova smile from the lad. “Right. Time to get that Royal Arm and get the hell out of here.”

~

The Axe of the Conquerer glowed triumphantly in Noctis’s hands, the prince wielding it with no sign of effort. The four gazed upon it in varying stages of awe, Prompto’s mouth wide open at the display of raw magical power.

Noct swung the blade experimentally, but the close-quarters of the tomb were unsuitable to test its full capabilities, and soon he let it dissolve into the armiger with a scatter of blue lights which left after-images swimming in Ignis’s vision.

“So, Noct borrows the old kings’ powers?” Prompto clarified, his voice still awestruck.

“More or less,” Ignis removed his glasses to clean them, taking the opportunity to blink the motes of light from his eyes. “At this rate, he’ll soon rival his father’s legacy.”

“ “The Copycat King”,” Gladio snorted.

Noct narrowed his eyes at his shield, and kicked at his ankle.

“Out of line.”

Gladio grinned and punched the prince back, with enough force to deaden the arm.

“Well? What’s it like?” Prompto pressed, taking up what was seemingly becoming his routine position as peacekeeper between the pair. Ignis was grateful; their bickering could become quite tiresome.

Noct paused in rubbing life back into the limb, and his glare gave way to a contemplative frown.

“Hmm…” He brought the axe out once more and hefted it, swinging it in a lazy circle which came a less-than-accidental hair’s breath from Gladio’s head – causing to shield to rear back with a muffled curse – before he let the shaft land solidly on his own shoulder, one foot extended in a far-too casual pose.

“Like I’ve got some tricks up my sleeve,” he said with a grin.

Gladio huffed, ignoring both the near miss and his own reaction to it.

“No need to put on a magic show for us,” he grumbled.

Ignis clapped the man on this shoulder. Whilst he didn’t condone Noct’s cavalier attitude to weapon safety, Gladio had been asking to be taken down a peg.

“But it never hurt to practice,” he said.

~

Ignis had foolishly anticipated their return to the surface would become less gruelling once the threat of the arachne had been dealt with and the Royal Arm retrieved. Unfortunately, it seemed to only have made the remaining denizens of the mines more bold in their attacks.

Their party was growing weary, but the entrance to the caves was not far away. As long as they continued their pace they would be out within the hour... On the proviso their energy and potions lasted that long, that was.

Prompto, it seemed, was more than capable of maintaining a near-inexhaustive momentum. Whilst his fighting style was far from perfect – a result, he had explained, of his training being focused on suit-based manoeuvres – he made up for this in enthusiasm and raw talent. Upsettingly, he sustained a high level of minor injuries, and a memorable gash to the face when he had determined parrying a goblin’s attack came secondary to stabbing another which had been heading in Gladio’s direction. After a pause to lick their wounds – during which Gladio, Ignis, and Noct each took a turn in lecturing the poor lad on the principles of self-defence and self-worth – they had continued to the exit.

To his credit, Prompto’s fighting style had since improved greatly in the area of self-preservation.

Ignis was glad, in a way, that the cave was presenting so many opportunities for the team to practice. He, Gladio, and Noctis had been fighting together for a decade or more, and were well versed in each other’s strengths and weaknesses; incorporating a new element would take a great deal of getting used to. Prompto, on the other hand, needed to grow accustomed to fighting with others in a way they had all not previously considered.

“ _I mean, we didn’t exactly make decisions for ourselves_ ,” he’d said after one fight, when he had failed to anticipate Noct’s warpstrike, and the pair had collided in a painful clash of limbs. (Noct had said it was like hitting a fleshy brick wall).

“ _The suits made tactical calculations and instructed on the method of attack with the best outcome. All MT attacks are based on protocols and formulas: “If A, do B”, y’know?”_

Ignis did know; it was how they three had managed to routinely defeat Magitek units despite their overwhelming numbers. Each unit was predictable in their actions and single-minded in their methods.

So Prompto was at the double disadvantage of having to not only innovate and plan his own fighting strategy, but to suddenly fight alongside those with whom he had no ‘telepathic link’, as it were. Something he was not at all accustomed in doing. Considering this, Ignis could not help but be impressed once again by Prompto’s achievements to date.

Ignis contemplated this as he paused for breath after yet another goblin attack, but didn’t yet allow his knives to disappear into the Armiger, for fear of a second wave. He glanced around his companions, and was grateful to note they had all once again escaped relatively uninjured. His own heart was still hammering from the skirmish, adrenaline warring with the fatigue, which dragged at him from such a long day of combat. He would cook a thoroughly hearty dinner tonight. Steak, perhaps, with roasted potatoes, and—

_Prompto had a gun in his hand._

Where had he got it? Had he found one in the ruins?

 _Prompto had a gun in his hand **and he was pointing it at Noctis.**_ ****

His eyes were cold. Focused. Unemotional.

“Highness!” Ignis shouted, desperately. He flung out a dagger, aiming to deflect the gun hand, but it was too late. He couldn’t save his friend. His King. He had failed.

Three shots fired.

There was a scream.

 _…Three_ screams.

Spouts of miasma flared as three goblins fell to the ground behind Noct, each dead from a bullet placed precisely between their eyes.

At the same moment, Ignis’s knife landed, and the gun flew out of Prompto’s hand, shattering into the blue of the Armiger. Prompto was left, clutching at his wrist around the knife shaft, embedded straight through it.

“ _Fuck_.”

Ignis wasn’t certain if it was just he or all of them who had spoken. Certainly Noct and Gladio both also ran to Prompto’s side, helping him to sink in a controlled fall, once more, to the cavern floor.

Ignis felt himself grow cold with the dreadful realisation of what he’d just done. But self-blame and accusations could follow later, when they had dealt with the current emergency.

In that, they all appeared to be in agreement. Gladio’s mouth was clamped tightly closed, his expression coldly shuttered as his eyes focused upon the wound in a businesslike manner. Ignis dared not even look to Noct, for fear of what he might see, coward that he was.

Prompto was sweating profusely, and his body trembled, though he was keeping admirably still. Silent tears leaked from his wide eyes, which were fixed in raw horror upon the blade. He was biting down on his lips, thinning them to a fine line, his breath rushing with forced-regularity through his nose. Blood was leaking rapidly from around the wound, though it wasn’t pulsating, thank the Astrals. Even so, Ignis knew the moment the dagger was removed, the blood loss would increase dramatically.

“Gladio, hold him steady,” Ignis instructed, forcing his voice to remain calm and in control, “Highness, have a potion at the ready.” He took Prompto’s arm, only tightening his grip when the lad tried at first to pull away. Ignis hoped it was only because of the pain and not as a consequence of his actions, but such selfish thoughts could wait until later to process.

“I’m going to pull the knife free. Prompto, I would like you to move your hand so that it doesn’t get cut by the blade, if you would be so kind.” Despite the situation, Ignis was careful to make his words a request. An order now would only compound his failure.

As Prompto hesitantly did as he asked, Ignis pulled some gauze from the Armiger and packed either side of the wound, holding it tightly in place. Readjusting his grip to steady the arm, Ignis took hold of the knife handle with the other hand.

“On the count of three then, gentlemen... One, two—”

Prompto bit back a shriek, his head falling back against Gladio’s shoulder, but otherwise keeping his body still as instructed. A second later, Noct had broken the potion against his arm, and he relaxed bodily against the shield.

All that was heard for a moment were Prompto’s harsh breaths. Then Noct rounded on Ignis.

“What the _fuck_ , Ignis?!”

Ignis went to push his glasses up his nose, but caught sight of Prompto’s blood covering his hand and thought better of it. Now the would was closed, he used the gauze instead to wipe what he could from them.

“I can offer no excuse,” he said, “It was a gross error in judgement on my part. I can only beg your forgiveness, Prompto, though I do not expect it of you.”

“N-no biggie... Iggy,” Prompto said giving him a heartbreakingly reassuring smile.

“ _Yes_ , biggie. He just _stabbed_ you!” Noct turned briefly back to his friend, but then whirled back to Ignis. The wrathful heat in his eyes bored right into Ignis’s chest, consolidating around the knot of shame already lodged there.

“I thought we were past all that suspicious spy crap?” he snarled.

Ignis tried not to let his anger flare, but there was only so much flagellation he was willing to take on this matter.

“While I do not seek excuses for my actions, perhaps I might not have been so startled if you had both chosen to confide in us,” he bit back, tasting the acid on his tongue. “Or did you expect me to guess, upon seeing Prompto with a gun, that you had granted him _access to the Armiger_?”

“He’s not the enemy!”

“ _ **And neither are we.** ”_

Hearing his forceful tone echo back at him from the cavern walls, Ignis paused, taking in a deep breath and forcing himself to calm.

“In fact, I support your decision,” he said, raising a challenging brow at Noct’s resulting, incredulous scoff, “Prompto has proven himself more than trustworthy over the past few days... A feat none of the rest of us has successfully managed, I might add.”

Beside him Ignis heard Prompto whisper a muted: “ _Yikes_ ”.

“Highness,” Ignis said, keeping his gaze fixed on Noctis’s still rage-filled, yet growing evermore defensive eyes, “These past few weeks have been challenging for us all. Insomnia’s fall...” he halted, shaking his head at a sorrow still too raw to put adequately into words, collecting himself, and continuing with renewed vigour, “…We have all suffered and lost loved ones. I cannot fathom the weight of the burden you must now bear; I can only help in whatever small way I can to alleviate it. But you _have_ to start trusting us.”

Noct opened his mouth, no doubt to snap something biting in regard to last night’s fiasco, but Ignis cut him off with a stern, yet understanding, frown.

“A trust which we have not always honoured as we should, much to our shame. However, we only ever act with your best interests at heart. That is all we _ever_ _have_ done. Sometimes it falls to us to make the hard choices, or to act for the good of King and Crown, despite your own feelings on the matter – sometimes even _because_ of those feelings. Because we are trained to do so; to do what we must to ensure your safety. It is the mark of your trust in us, that you would allow Gladio and I this act of service, even if it means relinquishing your authority and autonomy at times… It used to be enough, before the fall _.”_

Ignis took a breath, and reached his hand out to cover Noct’s, where it lay, clenched, in the prince’s lap. Prompto’s blood was beginning to dry on his hands, an unpleasant sensation to say the least. Ignis bore it as a mark of his folly.

 _“Please_ don’t shut us out of your life, Noct,” he begged, “Not now.”

That they needed Noctis as much as he needed them went unsaid; a mutual understanding as old as Noct himself.

The cavern was silent.

Noct’s head had ducked during Ignis’s speech, his expression hidden behind his curtain of hair. Then he looked up and to the side, sniffing surreptitiously and passing his free hand quickly under his nose.

He nodded, once.

Ignis returned the nod like the promise it was, squeezing Noct’s hand and hoping it was enough to convey all his unspoken feelings. Then he turned back to Prompto.

“I’m sorry, Prompto, truly,” he said. “It was unworthy and immensely hypocritical of me to attack you. You didn’t deserve that response.”

“Seriously Iggy, it’s all good,” Prompto smiled, though he still looked pale and shaken, and not a little shell-shocked by the weight of the conversation. “...I’m sorry too, for not telling you about the gun.”

“Nevertheless, if there is some way I can provide recompense to demonstrate my contrition...” Ignis pressed.

Prompto brightened, “Well… If you’re super keen...”

“Name it. If it’s within my power, it shall be done.”

“...You could make some more of that awesome baklava?”

Ignis smiled.

“As you wish, my friend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay to this chapter, I'm having a tough time right now. The next chapter needs some work but I hope it should still get out on schedule. Thank you for your comments and patience as always T x


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience folks! Real life has been *inchoerant screaming* and I've had zero mental energy. Which was fine when we were on the pre-written chapters that only needed a bit of proofing, but we caught up to the unwritten parts a lot faster than my executive function had accounted for u_u  
> I won't make any time-based promises on the remaining chapters, aside from to say that they will be completed as soon as I can. They aren't as chunky as this one though, so I'd say the biggest hurdle has been leapt... at least on my end.
> 
> Prompto, on the other hand....

It seemed out of the four of them, Prompto was the only one unsurprised when the party stepped out of the Trench and into daylight.

Noct squinted at the glare as if personally offended, a hand coming up to shade his eyes.

“Could’ve sworn we were in there longer,” he muttered.

“Indeed, I had assumed night would have been upon us, given the apparent length of our excursion,” Ignis said, reaching for his phone.

“What time even is it?” Noct muttered.

“Dinner time, hopefully,” Gladio grunted, simultaneously to Prompto’s much more accurate reply:

“Zero-five fifty-four, and forty-seven seconds.”

His three companions turned to stare.

Prompto felt the beginnings of a blush starting. That seemed to happen a lot these days, but the variation in both temperature and colour appeared to depend on the severity of his discomfort. Right now, for instance, his face had heated by 0.3 degrees and the colour was at FC94AF; a fairly mild case, all considered.

“In the _morning_?” Noct groaned.

“I’m not gonna ask,” Gladio said, shaking his head at Prompto with a put-upon sigh.

“I’d wager the term, ‘internal clock’ holds a more literal meaning with you, Prompto, than it does with us?” Ignis said, amusement in his tone.

“I… uh…” _FE7F9C, 0.5 degrees._ Prom rubbed at the back of his neck, feeling the heat spreading there also.

Gladio snorted. “You got the weather forecast too, kid?”

“He’s not a freaking smartphone, Gladio!”

“Pfft, nah, he’d never fit in my pocket.”

 _1.1 degrees, F26B8A at least, perhaps even F25278_. Almost as bright as the blood which still stained his clothes.

“I’m not even going to _begin_ on how creepy that sounded,” Noct said, throwing up his hands toward the ever-brightening sky.

“Regardless, it seems we have missed two, if not three, proper meals, and a full night of sleep,” Ignis said, pushing his glasses up his nose even as he directed attention away from a very grateful Prompto.

“I suggest we make a swift return to the Outpost.”

Noct’s phone rang at that moment, and he glanced at it, giving an indecipherable huff before he answered.

“Yeah?

Prompto could hear Marshal Leonis on the line.

“Finally picked up. Thought I’d lost another king.”

“Just busy building my arsenal,” Noct replied, looking as smug as he sounded.

“Good to hear,” to his credit, Cor did sound both relieved and sincerely pleased. “If you head south from the Trench, I left the Regalia in a spot hidden from the road. Figured you’d appreciate the ride back.”

“Enough to forgive you driving her again,” Noct said, his lips curling up even as he rolled his eyes.

To Prompto’s surprise there was a chuckle from the other end of the line.

“I’m no altruist, I have a task for you and I need you fresh. The Empire’s ramped up construction of the base near here, along the road west to Duscae. I need you to put it out of commission. If left unchecked, it will cost us access to the west—and all the royal tombs that lie beyond… Head back to the Outpost for now, we’ll hit it tonight.”

Noct gave a grunt of affirmation and ended the call without further chit-chat.

Judging by the blank looks on Ignis and Gladio’s faces, Prompto guessed they hadn’t heard Cor’s side of the conversation. He decided to play it safe.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“People to see, bases to burn,” Noct said, faux-casually. “Cor left the Regalia to the south. Let’s get back to the Outpost; I could do with a day’s sleep.”

“When could you not?” Gladio snorted, getting a middle finger from the prince in reply.

~

Gladio let Prompto ride in the back with Noct.

The day was dry but not particularly warm. Even so, Ignis left the roof down, and Noct – who Prompto would have expected to complain of the chill – said nothing; simply tucking himself up into a catlike ball and falling immediately asleep.

Prompto felt a surge of fondness for all three of them.

Unlike their journey to the Trench, he was free now to stare out at the scenery, and he did so greedily, despite his fatigue.

Noct mumbled something in his sleep, too soft even for Prom to decipher, and a moment later he found himself with a lap full of Lucian prince. Well, mostly just his head.

Prompto stared down in mute surprise; his hands raised up out of range, as if any sudden move might cause Noct to explode.

He must have verbalised his panic in some way, because there was an amused huff from the front.

Gladio turned to rest his arms on the back of his seat, his face contorted in that way it did when he was trying not to laugh.

“Gladiolus, please utilise a modicum of road safety, if you would.”

“Aww, but look at ‘em, Iggs,” Gladio smirked at Prompto, eyes sparkling with humour, “Noct’s being _adorable_.”

Prompto caught Ignis’s eyes as they darted briefly to the rear-view mirror, before returning to the road ahead. The man’s lips quirked upward, but he didn’t acknowledge Prompto’s silent plea for help.

“Yes, I do see your dilemma, Gladio. Yet I would ask you to consider the fine paste you would make of our two youngest should I come to a sudden halt.”

“Pfft, fine, lemme just—” and Gladio raised his phone, a distinct clicking noise coming from it suggesting he had taken photographic evidence.

“Whadda I do?” Prompto hissed.

“Whatever you like,” Gladio shrugged, “Kid won’t wake up no matter what. I’ve been drooled on plenty of times to know it doesn’t make a damn bit of difference. My advice is: get comfortable.”

Prompto huffed, feeling anything _but_ comfortable, but at that moment Noct frowned and muttered again, his shoulders tensing.

Hesitantly, Prompto dropped his hand to his friend’s head, gently yet awkwardly patting the hair. This produced favourable results: Noct’s muscles relaxing and his breath evening out to a slower rhythm. Encouraged, Prompto began to carefully card his fingers through the hair, teasing out any knots he encountered, in the way Ignis had for him back at the caravan. It had soothed Prompto at that time, and the current data suggested this reaction was universal, and not something exclusive to the chocobo part of him, as Prompto had feared.

As his hand glided through the surprisingly wispy locks, Prompto thought back to when Noct had gifted him the blessing of the Armiger.

Ignis had been in the shower, following Cor and Gladio’s eviction from the caravan, and Noct had pressed the gun into Prom’s hands, his eyes filled with an intense surety and confidence in Prompto that Prom still felt wholly inadequate to bear.

“I’m not having you defenceless again,” Noct had cut across all Prompto’s protests. “You deserve the right to protect yourself.”

“Do I need to remind you about the whole super-strength thing?” Prom had weakly deflected, “Cause it kinda seemed like a big deal when I punched that coeurl to death.”

“Weird flex, but ok,” Noct had snorted. “Look, bud, there’s going to be times when fighting with your hands isn’t enough, and I just proved I can do shit-all to keep you safe. So just… take the damn gun, okay? For me?”

Well, what could Prompto’ve said to that? “ _No_ ”, obviously, would have been a good start, or maybe “ _Perhaps you shouldn’t give a monster made by your mortal enemy – who’s **literally** just deactivated their ‘no-killing-humans’ subroutine – access to a cache of deadly weapons_”. But Prom’d just nodded, feeling the weight of the gun, far lighter than the responsibility which settled on his shoulders along with it.

There’d been a weird, desperate look in Noct’s eyes: kinda hunted, or haunted, or just plain tired, he still didn’t know which. But at Prom’s agreement, he’d sagged in relief, some of the tight lines around his brow and jaw smoothing somewhat.

He gazed down at Noct now, fingers stroking away the hair that had fallen over his face to tuck it behind an ear. Even in sleep and settled, there was a furrow in his buddy’s brow, and faint ones at the corners of his eyes and mouth.

Prom would do anything, to wipe away those lines for good.

The camera shutter noise cut though his thoughts once again.

“Pfft, yeah, that one’s going in the album.”

~

The marshal was waiting for them at the Outpost.

He raised a brow as they approached, Gladio with their tent slung over one of his shoulders, and Prompto with the cooler over one of his.

(Gladio had watched without comment as Prompto had lifted the weight with ease, but his eyes had sparkled in a way which suggested arm-wrestling in Prompto’s future.)

“I secured the caravan for the next two nights,” he said, the words just as much a question as a statement.

“We’re camping,” Noct replied, his chin raised in challenge. He was still a little belligerent after waking to find himself drooling onto Prompto’s thigh, though Gladio had reigned in his comments after a stern warning from Ignis.

Prompto worried that Cor might press the issue, but the man simply shrugged.

“Your choice.”

“I do suggest, however, that we make use of the shower, if you don’t mind, Marshal?” Ignis said. “I myself would be grateful for use of the kitchen; baklava requires baking in an oven, after all.” He glanced at Prompto, offering him a wink.

Prom returned it with a shy grin.

Noct looked down at his clothes, grimacing at the dirt, dust, blood, and gore which was liberally spattered upon them.

“Uh, yeah, good idea. You coming, Prom?”

“I… uh… sure?” Prompto was confused. It hadn’t been his experience so far, that group showering was accepted practice, but Noct was already half-way toward the caravan.

“Just set the cooler down beside the door for now, if you would, please, Prompto,” Ignis requested. “I shall require some ingredients from inside anyway.”

Prom did as he was asked, before facing the caravan doorway and taking a steadying breath.

_He’d just spent the majority of a day inside a labarynthine cave, for Astrals’ sake. This was nothing._

Noct was sitting, fully clothed, on the closed seat of the toilet when Prompto entered the bathroom, less than a minute later. His phone was out, and he was tapping the keys with concentrated frenzy – his usual state when engaging in his game of King’s Knight. There was a large towel sat on his lap, but otherwise he looked disinclined to begin the cleaning process.

“Um... aren’t you gonna…?” Prompto started, a hand finding its usual position against the back of his neck.

“Hmm?” Noct barely glanced up from the screen, giving Prom a vacant, bored stare. “Oh, yeah. You first, bud. I’m kinda on a boss right now.”

“Uhhh…”

“Both of us can’t fit in that cubicle anyway,” Noct gave a sloppy shrug. “Go ahead… if you want?”

The question was kindly tacked on, but Prom didn’t really need much encouragement regardless of whether it had been an order, intentional or not. He was feeling super groady.

He quickly stripped off, kicking his clothes into a pile and then getting in under the spray. At the first blast of hot water against his aching muscles, he dropped his head forward with a low groan.

And this… this wasn’t so bad. He’d showered before and nothing untoward had happened. Just because he was in a metallic pod, the light reflecting off clinical white surfaces and shining chrome, didn’t mean it was anything like the facility. And yeah, his fingers brushing the metal of his implant, and the mechanical parts of the shower unit – too alike for comfort – wasn’t exactly _peachy_ , but he could _so_ do this.

Was it getting too hot in here? He had set the water temperature to a mid-to-high heat, but nowhere near his usual tolerance limits. Yet Prom was beginning to find breathing a struggle; his whole body feeling heavy, like he was emersed in tar. He put his hands out before him, supporting his weight as his head dropped between his arms; trying to take slow, deliberate breaths.

“We should totally get you a phone.”

Prompto blinked.

Dragging himself from the weird haze he’d found himself sinking in to, he looked past dripping hair to Noct, who still sat, staring at his phone.

“Iggy and Gladio play, even _Cor_ plays, but none of them are on _my_ level.” (Ignis, in fact, was several dozen levels _higher_ than Noctis, but Prompto didn’t need to know that. His statement was still _technically_ true).

“Plus, we kinda need to be able to contact each other in an emergency,” Noct continued. “If we end up in a place like those mines again, I don’t want anyone getting left behind.”

Prompto found himself unable to form a reply, but this didn’t seem to matter. Noct launched into a detailed description of how Kings Knight multi-gameplay worked – never mind that he’d done so numerous times in Pryna’s world over the years – and didn’t seem to require any more than a grunt or two of input from Prom.

Prompto took a long, shallow breath, and began to wash himself.

When Prom shut the valve off, Noctis jumped up, his hand snapping his phone closed while the other thrust the towel out toward him. He still wasn't making eye-contact, for some reason.

“Here. Uh, I guess your clean clothes are out in the drawers, huh? Better go get changed before you catch a chill, or whatever. Ok bye!”

And with that, Prompto was summarily ejected from the bathroom, the door slamming shut and bolt turning behind him.

…

…Well.

That was weird.

Why had Noct’s face been 9E1A1A, right up to the ears? And why had Noct decided to sit with Prom, if it made him so obviously uncomfortable in the first place?

“Is everything all-right, Prompto?”

Ignis was at the kitchenette, stirring something sweet-smelling in a large bowl.

“Uh… yeah?”

Ignis smiled. “Do get changed, then, before you catch a chill.”

He, too, failed to look at Prompto during Prom’s changing process. Prompto was growing very suspicious.

Did they not trust him to be alone, after his fuckup with Noct and the gun? But why then had Ignis and Gladio allowed him to be alone with Noct during his shower, or in the backseat of the Regalia?

“If you find yourself at a loose end, you might like to assist Gladio in putting our camp together,” Ignis said, finally turning to regard Prompto as he pulled on the last of his clothes.

“Or you may occupy yourself as you like, whatever your preference. Though I suggest you should not wander too far from the Outpost.”

“I’ll… go help Gladio?”

“As you wish, though he can certainly manage by himself, if you would prefer not to.”

“Uh, Iggy, buddy?” Prompto dithered, his hands wringing his damp towel to near tearing point. “I’m super grateful for the lack of orders and all that, but could you stick to like, a binary choice? —I-if that’s okay by you, of course.”

Ignis’s smile softened, and he set his bowl and spoon down to turn his full attention on Prompto.

“Certainly, Prompto. I apologise for overwhelming you. I merely wished to convey that you are free to choose to do as you wish. When not occupied with royal duties, our time is our own. Gladio reads or takes exercise; I cook or go over our ledger and recipes; Prince Noctis plays Kings Knight or sleeps… we are all free agents, in that regard.”

Prompto stared.

 _Free time? What did he want with free time? He’d_ never _had free time before._

“Perhaps you might start out with something small,” Ignis said, kindly, sensing his dilemma. “Arranging the camp to your liking, perhaps, or weapons maintenance?”

Prompto perked up.

Weapons! Weapons were something he could understand.

“Ah, a satisfactory suggestion, I gather?” Ignis said with some humour. “All the supplies you require are in the Armiger, and you may use the table at camp until I have completed our breakfast preparations... You could take this as an opportunity to hone your skills at accessing the Armiger.”

Prompto caught the slight reproving note to Ignis’s words and gave him a sheepish smile.

“Yeah, I’m… I kinda suck at that so far… sorry.”

“You are very much forgiven, Prompto; as you forgave me,” Ignis said, turning back to his work. “All missteps may be learned from, if one is given the grace to try.”

~

“Hey! What’s this, you’re making him work?”

Noctis slouched into camp, Ignis in his wake, both showered and freshly dressed.

Ignis was carrying a tray with what Prompto very much hoped was the promised baklava, (but turned out to be something far, far better even than that).

Cor looked up from his phone, where he was slouched in a chair by the unlit campfire.

“Didn’t make him do a thing, Argentum wanted to get aquatinted with all the deadly weapons he now has access to, is all.”

Cor had been filled in by Gladio, it transpired, on the Prompto-Armiger situation; and so hadn’t reacted as negatively as Prompto had feared when, on reaching the camp, Prom had informed the pair of his ‘free-time’ plans. Prom’d still felt the man’s gaze boring into the back of his neck as he worked, though the steady, rhythmic process of deconstruction, cleaning, oiling, and reconstruction, had quickly set his mind and body at ease.

The accusation in Cor’s tone was enough to ruffle Noct’s feathers, but he bit his tongue and opted for ignoring the man instead.

“Is that right?” he asked Prom directly, “No-one ordered you to do that, even by accident?”

Prompto – half way through stripping and oiling the gun he’d been using previously that day – shook his head.

“I like it,” he said.

“You… _like_ doing chores?”

“I dunno, man,” Prompto shrugged, “I’m kinda used to it, and it’s nice to see your work working, yeah?”

“I guess…” Noct said, not sounding sure, but dropping the matter regardless.

“While I thank you for your efforts thus far, Prompto,” Ignis said, stepping forward toward the table with his tray, “…breakfast – of a sorts – is served.”

“Oh!” Prompto gathered up the gun pieces, snapping them together as he did so, and then vanished it and the cleaning supplies back into the Armiger. “Sorry, Specs! …There ya go.”

“What we having?” Gladio asked, sauntering up with a towel slung about his shoulders. He had opted for washing in a nearby stream, apparently preferring the cold water over the caravan shower. Prompto couldn’t think of anything less preferable – besides the hoses at the facility, that was.

“I decided a protein-rich meal was on the cards, given our recent activities,” Ignis said, removing the cover from his tray with a flourish.

Gladio gave a low whistle. “Hell, yes! I am ready for this!”

It looked… like a seared lump of meat, steaming with heat even though it seemed to be barely cooked. At the side sat long, rectangular yellow objects, too thin to be nutrient cubes, thankfully; what he knew from yesterday was a tomato, halved; and even longer, green plants, which looked like miniature trees.

“I take it you haven’t used a knife before, Prompto?” Ignis asked as he and the others took their seats around the table, Cor dragging his chair over to wedge between Noctis and Gladio. It was cramped with the five of them, with only just enough space for their arms to move without jostling.

“Uh, yeah, lots of times?” Prompto allowed a small frown of confusion to show. It mirrored Ignis’s expression for a moment before the man’s face cleared.

“Ah… I meant when eating.” He held up a small, bladed knife with a wooden handle, a matching fork in his other grip. Prompto noticed the rest of the party had picked up theirs and hurried to follow suit.

“Hold the food in place with the fork, and cut into the meat using a steady sawing motion,” Ignis instructed. “The portion you separate with your fork can then be eaten.”

Prompto watched cautiously as the other four did just that. Cor and Ignis added a small sample of the other items on their plates alongside their meat, pushing fork and knife edge together to spear the food into a stack. Gladio and Noctis kept their portions separate, though Gadio’s looked far too large to fit comfortably inside his mouth.

They all paused, however, before eating, looking instead towards him with expectant expressions.

With some adjustments to his grip, Prompto managed to manoeuvre his meat into a suitable position, copying Noct, who had turned his plate to achieve an optimal cutting angle.

The meat had far less give to it than Prompto was expecting. It was completely unlike living flesh, and not difficult to cut into at all. The knives did appear sharp, but they didn’t possess the wicked jaggedness of a kukri or hunting dagger. It was almost like a scalpel blade; sliding rather than ripping through the meat.

_He wondered if Besithia found it as easy, carving into Prompto’s skin._

“A truly well prepared and cooked steak should not require a sawed edge to cut it,” Ignis was saying. “Every person has their own liking as far as cooking duration is concerned, but I took the liberty, Prompto, of starting your steak medium-rare. I can easily cook it further, should it not be to your liking.”

That sentence had an unasked question attached to it, but Prompto hadn’t a clue how to respond.

“Yeah, this meat’s pretty good quality,” Gladio said, poking his portion with his knife. “Didn’t think we had the budget for it.”

“I took the opportunity of dressing one of the garula we dispatched on our last hunt,” Ignis said. “If we are to live within our means, gentlemen, it would be wise for us to learn to live a little more hand to mouth, as it were.”

“Well, you did a good job,” Cor said, “I’d be pressed to tell this from a restaurant-grade steak.”

“I dunno, looks pretty butchered to me,” Gladio said with a grin.

Noct gave a long, low groan, throwing his head back and rolling his eyes.

“Really? I’m trying to eat here.”

“Yes, do control yourself, please, Gladio,” Ignis said, primly. “You of all people should know that steak jokes are a medium in which it is rare to find one well done.”

“Cute,” Cor said, flatly, as Noct gave another, even more exaggerated groan.

“This is… steak?” Prompto lifted the portion, staring at it at eye-level.

He thought about putting it into his mouth. Of chewing. Swallowing.

He felt like he was going to throw up.

“Yup!” Gladio said happily. “Best damn thing this side of cup-noodles. Take a bite, kid, it’ll change your life.”

“Hyperbole aside,” Ignis said, an eye-roll in his tone, “Steak offers an extremely efficient source of protein and iron. It also contains many essential nutrients, all of which you shall currently be in deficit of, given your earlier blood-loss.”

“Oh yeah, and what about the fries, huh? You gonna tell him they’re good for you too?”

“Potato is a perfectly acceptable source of carbohydrates, thank you, Gladiolus. Even when taking into consideration the vegetable fat required in frying…”

Prompto let their voices fade, turning his attention fully on to the steak. The pinkish juices on it oozed into one collective droplet, and began to slide down the fork, toward his fingers. He used it as an informal time limit, forcing the portion into his mouth in the split-second before the drop reached his skin, and fighting back the urge to vomit.

The taste was… not unpleasant.

Prompto slid his fork free, and paused for a moment, processing.

He had no idea how to even begin describing the flavour that was currently trying to melt its way across his tongue. Subtle and strong all at once, fragrant and familiar, yet completely alien in a wonderful way.

He chewed.

Okay, big understatement. It was un-freaking-believable.

He closed his eyes, chasing the taste as he chewed further, the meat’s flavour mellowing and fading the more of that amazing juice his teeth squeezed from it.

Finally, he had to accept that it was over, and he should swallow – quickly – so he could repeat the experience with the next mouthful.

He opened his eyes, and saw they were all staring at him. Gladio and Noct were both grinning broadly.

“Told ya,” Gladio said, before shovelling his own forkful into his mouth. He had to turn the piece first one way and then the other to fit it in, cheeks bulging slightly when it was all inside.

Noct reached across to Prompto’s plate, poking a yellow rectangle with his knife.

“Try a fry,” he said, still smiling widely, his eyes glittering in a way Prompto never wanted to stop seeing.

It was close to an order, but Prompto didn’t mind; it wasn’t like he wasn’t going to do just that, regardless.

Spearing a ‘fry’ with his fork, Prompto did as Gladio had done, poking one end into his mouth and pivoting it so he could fit the other side in.

He repeated the tasting process, flinching with surprise as almost-too-hot juice burst out of _this_ too. This time, he didn’t wait too long to swallow, ensuring the memory of the taste was still strong on his palate.

“This is the best day of my life,” he whispered.

“Need I remind you that you suffered several moderate to severe injuries, and a panic attack today?” Ignis said dryly, as Noct and Gladio began to laugh. Even Cor looked like he was smiling.

Prompto would have replied with something coherent, but he already had another half-dozen fries in his mouth, so what came out was pretty much incomprehensible.

~

Noct didn’t like asparagus, it turned out; which didn’t matter all that much, because Prompto _loved_ asparagus.

Ignis pretended he didn’t see Noct clandestinely transferring his share to Prom’s plate. He also ignored Cor moving _his_ portion onto the _prince’s_ plate, which Noct was less enthusiastic about, but didn’t resist further than a put-upon sigh. It seemed to Prom that Cor could be just a formidable as Iggy when it came to Noct’s nutrition.

Afterward, Ignis had offered the promised baklava to Prompto, but he’d had to (extremely reluctantly) decline, for fear he would be sick.

“I feel weird,” he admitted to Noct’s anxious question. “My stomach feels like, super tight and kinda heavy? And I’m losing cognitive function,” he noted, with alarm.

Noct’s concern melted away into a look of fond humour. “Dude, you totally have the ‘itis,” he chuckled.

“Is it dangerous?!”

Prompto was distracted from his burgeoning panic by Ignis heaving a put-upon sigh.

“What Noctis means, Prompto, is that you have ingested a large volume of calorific food, and your body is slowing down non-essential functions in order to process it,” he said, as he gathered their empty plates together to take to the basin. “It’s natural for the human body to seek to become sedentary, after a big meal.”

“Same in snakes, right?” Gladio said, with a sly wink.

Noct punched Gladio’s arm without breaking eye contact with Prom.

“You’re just full, dude,” he said. Then his smile turned a little sad, “I’m sorry you haven’t felt it before.”

Prompto considered this. It wasn’t an unpleasant sensation, now that he knew it wasn’t some sort of poison or sickness. He just felt… slow. Peaceful.

He yawned, his jaw stretching wide.

“Hah, guess there is some snake in you, after all,” Gladio snorted, “I could just about see your steak staring back at me, kid.”

“He’s joking,” Noct said with another thump to Gladio’s shoulder, “…you’ve heard of hyperbole before, right?”

Prompto had heard the word, but the “itis” was currently making it difficult to think. The more he tried to do so, the more his eyelids felt heavy, and the further his posture deteriorated.

“Time for us all to catch up on our beauty sleep, I believe,” he heard Ignis say.

Prom felt Noct take his arm, and let himself be manhandled to his feet. Said feet barely lifted high enough to bring one in front of the other, but somehow he managed it, until he found himself inside the tent.

Noct was saying something about sleeping bags, but he was doing so while encouraging Prom to lie on the padded floor – as soft and inviting as the first time he’d woken on it – and it was super hard to focus on anything else. Something soft and weighty came to rest on top of him, hands tugging and repositioning until Prompto was wrapped up entirely.

He heard Noct chuckle, but couldn’t parse what was said, simply agreeing with a sleepy hum, hoping that would be enough. A hand touched his cheek, stroking away the hairs which tickled it, but he felt it like it was happening far away, his mind already sunk into oblivion.

~

He woke up exactly six hours later, a light sweat covering his skin, and the taste of starscourge on his tongue.

Prompto disengaged the memory so fast it left him dizzy, rapidly blinking the mirage-like overlay from his eyes.

Shit.

He’d accessed his hard drive in his sleep.

Of all the memories to pick from, why did it have to be that one? He didn’t want any of his current experiences with food associating with that nightmare of a time.

**_“What is your designation?”_ **

Prompto squeezed his eyes tightly closed, a hand pressed against his mouth to block the bile that surged in his throat.

_In for four, out for eight. Put the coeurl back in its cage._

After ten minutes of careful breathing, Prompto found himself much calmer, but completely unable to sleep. The lighting wasn’t helping, the canvas of the tent doing little to block out the early afternoon sun.

Noctis, Gladio, and Ignis were all still sleeping. Deeply, by the looks of it.

 _The benefits of monster stamina, huh?_ Prompto thought, ruefully.

The sleeping bags had been opened out, two underneath and one spread over them all. Prompto realised this was yet another item that likely needed to be added to the growing list of things he needed; things Noct would probably buy him, whether he protested or not. He was determined not to accept a phone, though; he didn’t know much about what things cost, but he knew technology wasn’t cheap.

He wondered if his free time allocation would extend to taking hunts or other employment. He quickly dismissed the idea. Any actions he took to earn back the money which had been spent on him would likely need to be clandestine, or else Noct would have a fit.

So, Prompto had free time; and the freedom to choose how to spend it, up to a point. That prospect was… vaguely terrifying.

Might as well continue what he had started earlier.

Utilising all his stealth training, Prompto crept to the tent exit, stepping over and around his three companions. The tent zipper was the next challenge, but required only a steady hand and patience to slide it near-to soundlessly open so he could slink outside.

Cor Leonis was watching him.

Prompto swallowed thickly, and gave the man a silent nod of acknowledgement before turning to close the zipper behind him, just as carefully.

He felt the marshal’s eyes upon him, from where the man sat in a chair beside the fire. He was on his phone, a stylus in his hand, probably going through reports.

“Good afternoon,” Cor said mildly, as Prompto approached, his steps hesitant.

“Uh, um, good afternoon, Marshal.”

“Couldn’t sleep?”

“I, uh, I’ve had sufficient sleep, I think? …I think the itis status has worn off.”

Cor’s mouth twitched like he was trying not to laugh, though Prom didn’t really understand what had been funny about his statement.

“Me too. I’m not one for resting before an engagement. Too much adrenaline.”

Prompto found that very relatable. “I, uh, I didn’t feel like I could stay laying down, y’know? Wanted to do something productive.”

“I like the attitude,” Cor said, nodding in approval.

Prompto returned the nod, and, guessing (hoping) that was as much conversation as was really necessary at that moment, headed to the table to continue arms’ maintenance.

Ten minutes later Prom realised his leg was jerking up and down without his direct control. He frowned, deliberately stilling the insubordinate limb, and returned to running a whetstone over the greatsword in front of him.

It took twelve seconds for the leg to start moving again. Prompto stared at it in growing alarm.

He was about to begin freaking out when the marshal got to his feet, stretching expansively and cracking his neck.

“Think I’ll go for a run; burn off some of this extra energy,” he said, looking up at the clear sky, his hands on his hips. He tilted his head toward Prom. “…Care to join?”

Prompto opened his mouth to decline, but paused, considering the offer. He _did_ seem to have an excessive amount of energy buzzing about his nervous system, and the nightmare still lingered at the edge of his mind. He liked running in theory, having excelled in that area at the facility; it had only been external factors which had made it a less than fun experience. Prompto wondered if he would enjoy it now he wasn’t (presumably) going to be forced to do so while being shocked; or do so barefoot over sharp, rocky ground; or for several days’ worth of hours in one go, until his hips dislocated beneath him.

“…Sure?”

“No pressure, kid,” Cor gave him an almost-smile, one brow raised, “This isn’t a test.”

“Uh… no, Marshal, sir, I think I’d like to.”

“Just Cor’s fine, Prompto,” Cor jerked his head toward the tundra. “Let’s get to it then.”

~

It was odd, running without a goal in mind. Prompto didn’t know what the route the marshal – Cor – was taking them on, but that wasn’t unusual. What was unusual was that Prompto was allowed to set his own pace; though after a while Cor gave a snort.

“Are you going easy on me, Argentum?”

Prompto stumbled, despite the flatness of their current path, and skipped a few paces to right himself.

“I—!”

“Easy, kid, it was a joke.” Cor nodded towards a distant stretch of rocks. “How about you show me what you can do, huh? Think you can beat me to those rocks?”

“…No?”

Cor surveyed Prompto, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

“That because you _know_ you can beat me?”

Prompto gulped, caught out on his deflection.

“Mmmaybe?”

But Cor didn’t look angry at his admission, instead giving a smile that was more like a baring of teeth.

“Prove it. Winner gets the loser’s dessert.”

Even as he finished the sentence, Cor had launched into a full-on sprint.

_Oh shit. It was on!_

Prompto switched gear, flexing his muscles to generate heat and prioritise speed, as he set off in pursuit.

A few strides in and he forgot all about Cor, and baklava, and the way his feet rubbed at the edges of his overlarge, borrowed boots.

Prompto _ran_.

Prompto ran, and everything else melted away.

This was it. This was freedom like he’d never imagined. No goal, no scientists monitoring his progress, no pain, or debilitation, or deliberate handicap. Just running for the pure, damn hell of it.

The rock appeared in front of him so fast he had to slam his heels into the ground. Seeing that wasn’t going to be enough to prevent a full-on collision, he leapt, landing two-footed in a squat on the top of the mound.

He took stock, straightening and sucking in deep breaths to ease his protesting lungs.

After a moment he realised he couldn’t hear the mars— Cor, and turned to look back the way he’d come.

He blinked.

 _Oh_.

Cor jogged up to Prompto half a minute later, looking winded and thoroughly amused as Prom climbed sheepishly back to ground level.

“That was your best?” he managed to gasp, after spending the same amount of time again breathing heavily and clutching his thighs.

“A chocobo’s top running speed is sixty point three miles per hour,” Prompto said, by way of apology.

Cor’s lips quirked up in a proper smile.

“What about a naga’s tensile strength?”

“Their tails can exert one hundred and twenty pounds of pressure per square inch.”

“And you?”

“I don’t have a tail, sir.”

Cor barked, and it took a moment for Prom to realise he was laughing.

He let himself untense, just a little.

“I can see why Noctis likes you,” the Marshal said.

Prompto was already warm and sweaty from the sprint, but still managed to blush pretty spectacularly all the same.

“And it’s Cor, remember?”

“Yes, s— _Cor_.”

Cor snatched a water from the Armiger, and drank, but didn’t offer Prompto any. After a moment Prom realised this was because he could do the same, any time he liked. That – as far as the Armiger was concerned at least – he and Cor were equals.

“I think… I like running,” he said, when the silence had gotten too much for him to bear.

“Yeah,” Cor said, it more of an affirmation of Prompto’s position than a similar affection himself, “You’ve got the physique of a runner, so no surprises there.”

Prompto blushed harder, focusing on his water until it was drained dry. When he looked over at Cor again, he wasn’t surprised to see the man had been watching him, his expression unreadable.

“C’mon,” Cor said, turning 90 degrees and heading off up a winding slope.

“Regis would have liked you, Prompto,” Cor said, ten minutes and thirteen seconds later.

They were up higher than the plains now, winding along an ever-increasing incline of rough, loose stone and dried dirt. Prompto had fallen in behind Cor and a little to his left, letting the marshal set the pace. It wasn’t hard, but stamina was Prom’s bag, so he knew it was probably more difficult for his full-human companion.

“Wh—?”

“The king. Noct’s father,” Cor said, as if it required clarification, “He was a sucker for orphan kids with more loyalty than sense.”

Prompto didn’t have any answer to that, so he said nothing, simply focusing on putting one foot in front of the other, and the comfortable burn building in his lungs.

“Reggy’s last wish was for his son to be happy,” Cor said. He was looking straight ahead, at nothing in particular that Prompto could make out.

“The dead never truly die, so long as there are those who live to carry on their will. Until _my_ dying breath, I’m going to make damn certain Reggy’s will is seen through to the end.

“But there’s one thing Regis never got to see. The one thing he died regretting; and that was that Noctis had never known full and honest friendship. Oh, Scienta and Amicita are true friends to him,” Cor quickly affirmed, glancing back as if he’d anticipated the concern written on Prompto’s face, “but there’s always that one fraction of a percentage of duty that gets in the way of an honest bond. Regis and Cid – that old bastard – they were the same. Me, and Weskham, and Clarus, we all had our share of duty, like a wedge between us, when it really came down to the line. Regis could order us to do pretty much anything and, sure, we’d bitch about it, but if he was serious, we’d obey.”

Cor paused, both in his speech and their run. He summoned another water; this time tipping it over the back of his neck, rubbing at his hair and shaking it out vigorously. He spared some of the bottle at the end to take a few more considered sips, staring off down the path they had come.

They had reached a fork in the path, a large wall blocking the way directly ahead at a sharp 150 degree. The light was beginning to fade, night drawing in.

“I always kind of hated Cid for that freedom, just a little bit,” Cor said when he was done, looking straight at Prompto, his eyes serious and sad. “He was my friend too, but he was a civilian, and he could tell Reggy to go screw himself whenever he liked.”

Prompto realised his mouth was open, and unstuck his tongue with difficulty. He grabbed a water for himself, this time downing the whole bottle in one, deep gulp, leaving him spluttering and gasping at the end.

“I’d never tell Noct to go… do that,” he said, weakly.

Cor grinned.

“You might. One day,” he said, continuing to talk over Prompto’s renewed sputtering protests.

“…I think Regis would be relieved to know his son has a friend – _has_ _had_ a friend, all his life.”

Cor gestured toward the right-hand path, a light hand on Prompto’s shoulder directing him to lead the way, walking this time.

“He’d be glad to know Noct wasn’t alone... I think he can rest easy now, knowing you’re there to watch Noct’s back.”

They came around the corner, and Prompto stopped dead.

“I think he’d want to thank you, Prompto Argentum,” Cor was saying, though he sounded suddenly very far away, “I don’t have the words like he did, but I thought this might be sufficient.”

The sky was on fire.

It started off against the black outline of the earth: a crisp, etched line of molten gold, individual trees like shadows piercing through it. It didn’t fade, as much as bleed into an orange so bright Prompto could barely believe it was real. Splashes of crimson were smudged within, growing greater in intensity and volume until it took over the whole sky. Further up, like the most beautiful bruise Prompto had ever seen, violet and magenta warred together, blending finally into the darkest, most vivid, _royal_ blue.

Prompto realised then why humans named colours; no number would ever do this picture justice.

“I think I’d have liked him too,” he choked, tears streaming down his cheeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Prompto is using the hex triplet colour system to grade the hue of his blush – he is a shitty nerd just like me. Yes, I read a paper on facial temperature increases due to blushing just to check it was a thing, and that my range of degree increase was accurate*. Yes, I researched chocobo running speed (thanks Kursed_Valeth on Reddit for that one (R/theydidthemath lol)) and naga tail psi (boa-constrictors have a range of 6-12 psi so I increased by a factor of 10). Yes, I’m doing very well thank you for asking, this is perfectly normal behaviour XD T x
> 
> *and Yes, the temperature is in celcius. I'm Scottish; if you can deal with an e on the end of shite, gratuitous use of the letter u, and a mistrust of the word pants, then you can deal with this :P


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG it's been soooo long D: Thank you all for your patience! The good news is the rest is written, it just needs a polish! so with any luck the last chapers will be out on schedule. This is a long one, but I hope it's worth the wait. T x
> 
> cw: blood and swears abound

Noctis was _pissed_.

Scratch that; he’d started off worried, moved rapidly to pissed, and now was downright _scared_.

‘Worried’ had lasted between him waking to find Prompto missing from his side, to exiting the tent and seeing the camp and its surroundings devoid of any Prompto-shaped lifeform. ‘Pissed’ lasted from his dragging Iggy and Gladio out of bed to help him search, to the moment he’d realised Cor was also absent. He’d been riding heady on ‘scared’ for the past half hour, and was rapidly declining into ‘ _furiously terrified_ ’, despite Iggy’s reassurances.

Ignis had at least convinced Noctis that tearing off into the wilderness wasn’t going to achieve anything when they didn’t know which direction the pair had gone, but he couldn’t stop Noctis from pacing about the camp like a trapped sabertusk.

Gladio had been no help, either.

 _“If Cor did take the kid, you know there’s nothing we can do about it if he doesn’t want to be found,”_ he’d said, infuriatingly calm as Noctis hung up his third failed call to the marshal in as many minutes. _“There’s no signs of a fight, and Prompto can take care of himself, so quit with your catastrophising.”_ Then he’d shucked off his shirt and jerked his head toward the camp edge, smiling in a not-so-nice way. _“S’ides, you’n me have a date with that fancy souvenir you picked up in the Trench. No sense getting her if you can’t swing her for shit.”_

He’d not taken any of Noctis’s excuses, eventually just picking him up and carrying him away, and then putting him through a relentless training session that had almost succeeded in distracting Noctis from the Prom-napping situation.

At the very least he’d been able to burn off a little of the anxious energy fizzing around his veins.

Ok, maybe that had helped a little.

“The marshal has responded to my message,” Ignis called from the camp, just as they were winding up. “Prompto is with him. They shall be returning shortly.”

“Did he say where they were?” Noctis demanded, ignoring Gladio as he jogged back to his advisor, snatching the phone unceremoniously from Ignis’s grip.

Cor’s answer to Iggy’s (too-polite in Noctis’s opinion) question, was less than informative.

**Ignis Scienta:**

Marshal, is Prompto with you? He is

not at the camp and we are growing

concerned.

**Marshal Cor Leonis:**

Yes. Back in 5.

“What the fuck does that mean?” Noctis scowled, even as his insides unknotted just a little, knowing his friend was apparently ok.

Ignis raised an unimpressed eyebrow, plucking the phone out of his hands and snapping it closed.

“A succinct answer, yes, but one I doubt we should be overly concerned over. Whatever called them away, we shall hear about it from them directly.”

“‘Concerned’ is an understatement,” Noctis grumbled, kicking at the loose stones of the Haven edge, “…And who has everyone’s whole-ass name in their phone like that, anyway?”

“Forgive me if I do not take instruction on naming conventions from you, ‘HeavenlyKnight666’.”

“I—guh! I was twelve!”

“You still pissed about his nickname for you, Mumnis?” Gladio asked Iggy with a wolfish grin. A thrown towel engulfed Noctis’s m head as the shield approached, rubbing his own through his sweat-soaked hair.

“Treachery, is it?” Ignis gave an unimpressed frown. “I wouldn’t have expected for you to take Noct’s side on the matter.”

“Pfft, he’s still ‘Daddio’ in his own phone,” Noctis said, smirking, “‘cause my names rock.”

Gladio flexed his arm muscles at Ignis provocatively, clearly still pleased with the moniker. “Perhaps if you didn’t act like his nanny all the time you’d have got a cool name too.”

Ignis rolled his eyes at them both. “Very well; if you catch a chill after parading about half-naked and covered in your own cooling perspiration, I shall refrain from my usual _motherly_ duties in tending to you.”

“Aww, wait, does that mean no chicken noodle soup?” Gladio’s smile and shoulders drooped.

Noctis began to cackle, but sobered a little when Ignis shot him a narrow-eyed glance.

“Hey, don’t look at me,” he said, holding up his hands protectively before him, “Gladdy’s the one with the problem here, not me.”

Ignis was about the reply, but instead something over Noctis’s shoulder caught his eye.

Noctis whirled round, spying Cor and Prompto a few dozen paces away. The pair didn’t look any worse the wear, though a bit sweaty, like they’d been running.

Had… had they just been out _jogging..?_

Prompto saw him looking and gave a wave, turning to reply to Cor when he spoke.

Ok, now Noctis was pissed again.

He strode up to the pair, ignoring Iggy, who was saying something about him staying calm – _as if!_ – and pulled Prompto bodily away from Cor.

“Are you okay? What happened? Where were you?” he demanded, gripping Prom’s shoulder as if he’d vanish again, and scrutinising him for any signs of harm.

“I… uh…”

Prom face had that blotchy, slightly puffy look to it that Noctis was unhappily familiar with, his eyes in particular rimmed a faint red.

“Have you been _crying?_ ” Noctis whirled on Cor, practically spitting flames and wishing he could. “What did you do to him?!” His head swung back to Prom, knowing his eyes probably looked pretty wild and not particularly caring; he was still a sweaty mess from training, too. _Urgh_.

“What did he do to you?” he repeated, forcefully.

“Easy, Highness,” Cor said, his tone light with humour.

Noctis was going to be the first king ever to personally execute a Crownsguard. He turned back to the man and snarled.

“Noct—” Prompto started.

“No, don’t make excuses for him.” Noctis stabbed a finger at the marshal’s chest. “You stay the hell away from—”

“Noct! Buddy! Easy there, dude,” Prom gripped Noctis’s hand where it still held his shoulder – a little too tightly to be comfortable for him, Noctis realised, and instantly relaxed his grip.

He paused, staring at Prom’s hand, and saw his own was shaking, just a bit; probably enough for Prom to have noticed, dammit.

“We went for a run, is all,” Prom said, smiling in a bemused way, like he seriously didn’t get what the problem was. “The marshal didn’t do anything… unless you count getting his ass kicked at sprinting.”

“I maintain you had an unfair advantage,” Cor grumbled, but there wasn’t any heat in it.

“Pfft, thought that’s what the forty second head-start was for?” Prom snarked, folding his arms and raising his eyebrows in challenge.

Amazingly, Cor had no comeback for this, simply grumbling for a moment under his breath before refocusing his attack.

“I thought I told you to call me Cor.”

“And I thought I told you that you could have a _sixty_ second head start, and I’d still win, _Cor_.”

Cor scoffed, but he didn’t meet Prompto’s eyes. “That’s a physical impossibility, Argentum,” he said, glaring out at the wilderness, “But any time you want to test that ego of yours I’m all for it.”

Prompto returned his attention to Noctis, who realised he was staring at them both, his mouth hanging open. Caught, he snapped his mouth shut, and frowned at Prompto uneasily.

“You sure you’re okay?”

Prompto – weirdly – broke into a wide grin.

“Dude. I’m _amazing_.”

Noctis blinked, then bit back a laugh. Perhaps there really hadn’t been any ulterior motive to Cor kidnapping his bestie. He began to feel just a little bit foolish, but brushed that off quickly before it stuck.

“Whatever you say, dork. Just… next time leave a message or something, ’kay?”

“S-sure, bud,” Prompto rubbed at the back of his neck, wincing apologetically, “Sorry I worried ya.”

Noctis shook his head, forgiving the guy easily. “We really need to get you a phone,” he said, “Cor can’t answer his phone or text for shit.”

“My phone was on silent, save for emergencies, and my answer contained all the information the situation required,” Cor said, looking unimpressed.

Noctis folded his arms and glared.

“I gotcha,” Prom said, darting in front of Cor, his hands raised up at Noct in surrender. “Next time we’ll leave a note, right Cor?”

The marshal looked like he was a step away from rolling his eyes, but then sighed and gave a minute nod, grunting what could possibly have been an affirmative.

Noctis nearly said something then, but the time wasn’t right. He needed some food on board before he attempted _that_ step. Calming down some more would probably be a good idea, too.

“Come on,” he said to Prom instead, slinging an arm around his shoulders and guiding him toward the camp. “Iggy made second breakfast. …It’s not like, cannibalism to eat eggs, right?”

“I had eggs the other day, dude.”

“Yeah but that was cockatrice eggs, these are chocobo eggs.”

“WHAT?! … _Iggy!_ ”

“It was all the merchant had, I’m afraid,” Ignis said apologetically, “And they are an excellent source of protein.”

“Are you saying _I’m_ an excellent source of protein?”

“Don’t answer that, Specs, it’s a trap!”

~

Prompto ate the eggs.

Noctis knew he didn’t actually care as much as his protests implied; it had just been a good excuse to distract everyone from the argument. Plus, Ignis had done that thing he did to make the whites all fluffy and the yolks all runny, and served it with toast dripping with butter, and Prompto was more vocal about how he was _“literally going to die he was so full”_ than he had been in protest over the ingredients.

They sat around the campfire to eat, Prompto staring with quiet intensity at the flames until Ignis told him off for ruining his eyesight.

“Sorry,” Prompto said, rubbing his neck and blinking rapidly, his night-vision probably shot to shit. “I guess I got distracted by all the colours. It reminded me of the sunset...”

“What sunset?” Noctis asked.

“Oh, dude, you totally missed it,” Prom said, leaning forward eagerly and launching into a surprisingly detailed description of the afternoon’s events.

As he talked, face flushed and smile wide, Noctis glanced at Cor. The guy caught him looking and gave a minute shrug, looking away as he sipped his coffee, as if embarrassed.

Noctis snorted, the humour not passing him by. He folded his arms and sat back in his chair, fixing Prom with a grin. “So, you went AWOL to go stare at the sunset? Dude, you’re such a nerd.’

“Pfft, you’re the nerd, nerd.”

“We should be ready to move out in the next hour,” Cor said, clearing his throat and shifting in his seat.

Noctis suppressed a grin. So, the marshal was uncomfortable having his good deed exposed? Good.

The politician in him was telling him he should capitalise on the moment, but the secret part of him still very much intimidated by Cor, no matter what lies he told himself, was threatening to run in the other direction. Stubbornness won out though, and he pushed himself to his feet before he could talk himself out of it.

“Marshal, you got a sec?”

Prompto, who was looking up at the stars now he was banned from his fire-watching, jerked his head around at the words. Noctis caught his eye and gave a quick, reassuring smile, before returning his gaze to the marshal.

Cor, for his part, didn’t look at all surprised, though perhaps a little resigned. He gave a formal nod, and stood.

Noctis was very aware of his friends’ eyes on his back, as he led the marshal out to a respectful distance from the Haven. It was far enough away to give the impression of privacy – for Cor, Ignis, and Gladio at least – but not so far that Prom wouldn’t be able to hear. He hoped his buddy would get the unspoken invitation to eavesdrop; Prom deserved to hear what Noctis had to say (and it saved him having to repeat what was likely going to be a pretty embarrassing few minutes).

A look back to the camp reassured him. Gladio and Ignis had returned their interest to their own hobbies; Ignis his ledger and Gladio another book with a woman on the cover with breasts as voluminous as her skirts. Prompto was sat back again, his face tilted up to the night sky, for all appearances engrossed on the stars.

Satisfied, Noctis took a steadying breath, and gave Cor his most princely stare.

_Hoo-boy, here goes._

“About last night…”

“—look, Highness,” Cor cut in, his hands coming to fold across his chest as he took a defensive stance, “If you’ve got me over here to chew me out, I’d rather you saved your energy for later.”

“Shut up.”

Cor’s mouth snapped closed, his focus sharpening on Noctis in a way that made his palms begin to sweat. Refusing to be intimidated, Noctis kept his posture straight and his eyes fixed on the marshal, his expression stern. He crossed his arms and squared up, keeping his “take-no-shit” expression firmly in place.

Cor remained silent, looking mildly surprised, but there was something else in his expression, like he was almost impressed.

“You know,” Noctis continued after taking a second to stop his voice from wavering, his tone deliberately airy. He turned away from Cor, looking out to the dark horizon, at the thin line of silver that separated the land and sky.

“…Iggy screwed up in the caves. He made a bad decision and Prom got hurt.”

He sighed, letting himself feel, not for the first time, his own shame for his part that disaster; and – for the first time – processing it properly instead of ignoring it like a dumb kid.

“But I guess it was really my fault for not trusting him. And I guess that’s what I want to talk about: ‘Trust’.”

“Highness—”

Noctis snapped his head back to Cor.

“Shut. Up,” he enunciated clearly. He meant this, dammit, and no-one was going to stop him saying what he had to say, not even Cor-the-freaking-Immortal. He hadn’t managed to say all that was needed the last time, in that first tomb, so soon after he’d learnt about the wall and Insomnia. This time he was going to get it right.

There was a pause, filled with tense, grinding emotion.

“Iggy and Gladio,” Noctis said, choosing his words carefully, “…and everyone else in my life. All you’ve ever done is protect me. Yeah, you do it cause it’s your duty, and you’re all good, loyal citizens of Lucis, and all that, but… but I know it’s also ‘cause you love me.”

 _Urrrghh_. Noctis regretted his decision to have Prom overhear all this – just a little bit – as he rode out the heavy cringe, forcing himself not to let his discomfort spill over into physical form. It needed to be said, and he meant every word, but _blegh_ …

Well, the worst part was over, so he just had to keep pushing through.

“All my life…” he took another deep breath, his hands dropping to his side to ball into fists; the frustration he’d felt at the first tomb rearing its head once more, “…all my life, I’ve trusted you guys. Trusted you to know what’s best, and to look out for me. Yeah, it was whack sometimes, but I knew you did it ‘cause you didn’t want me getting hurt…

“And then he broke that trust.”

Noctis couldn’t look at Cor now, couldn’t face the man’s sadness or his disdain, not knowing which would be worse. He glared at the ground instead, letting his emotions trickle out rather than releasing the floodgates.

“When I saw the news…” his breath hitched.

Another deep breath and he ploughed on.

“…When I found out he’d lied, kept the attack a secret from me and sent me out on a godsdamn _vacation_ , I… it hurt. It hurt so much. And I know, I _know_ he was just looking out for me, that he didn’t want me to take on the burden of the prophesy any sooner than I had to. And I know what you said about him knowing I was ready and everything was true. But it kills me knowing he didn’t trust me enough to make my own decision. I’m not a kid anymore, Cor, I’m the King of Lucis. My dad _died_ and I’m the king...”

Noctis knew there were tears in his words, that if he carried on down that road he’d break down, perhaps for good. He couldn’t do that. Not to Cor. Or his friends. Or himself.

He sucked in a breath, glaring up at the stars and blinking rapidly. Found his dad’s constellation and focused there until his heart steadied.

_I hope you’re listening too, old man._

“I’m the king,” he said, eventually, and knew his dad would be proud of how steady and calm he sounded. He was a little surprised at how right it sounded too.

“Sometimes that means sacrificing villages’ of innocent people to strengthen a wall, so that my scion of a son lives long enough to maybe save to world. Sometimes it means sending good people to bad places to die for a lost cause, just so a handful of others survive… And sometimes it means having to decide whether the fate of the whole world is worth doing war crimes on your best friend… and not letting your uncle take the heat for it.”

Noctis found he’d got enough courage there to finally look back up into Cor’s eyes. The man was giving him an appraising look, but his face was serious, sad.

“I know you wanted to protect me from having to make that decision. From having that necessary action on my conscience. But that was my burden to bear, not yours,” he continued. “If I have to learn to step up and take responsibly for my fate, then so do you guys. I can’t do that if you keep treating me like I’m gonna break at the slightest pressure. I— I’ve got this far on my own feet. I don’t need you standing in my way.”

The prairie was hushed, save for the faint (approving?) hum of the stars.

Cor sighed, and it was like the wind through the jagged peaks of an old, dead mountain, and just as weighty. He dropped his hands to his hips, breaking Noctis’s gaze to shake his head slowly at the dusty earth beneath their feet.

“Noctis, I—”

“What would Regis have done, if you’d pulled that crap on him yesterday?” Noctis asked, knowing he had to push his point home.

“…”

“Cor,” Noctis dropped his voice a little lower, “What would dad have done?”

Cor was silent a moment longer, then he huffed a tight laugh, and looked back up at Noctis. This time the respect in his gaze was palpable.

“He’d have knocked me on my ass.”

Noctus let himself smile at that, just a little. The tension was bleeding out of them both, an unspoken bridge crossed without having to burn it behind them. He folded his arms again, leaning his weight on his back leg to affect a casual pose.

“Well, I’m kinda wrecked still from all that fighting last night; slaying legendary monsters, fulfilling destiny, watching my best friend get stabbed, and all that stuff – plus I’ve got this Imperial base to explode, or whatever – so I guess I’ll owe you this one.”

Cor’s smile reached his eyes, crinkling the corners. “How magnanimous, Sire.”

There was a pause, much more pleasant this time. But Noctis had one last thing to add.

“I don’t need nursemaids anymore,” he said. “I need allies. Advisors. Friends.”

Cor gave another huff of a laugh.

“You’re just like Regis, you know that?”

“I thought I told you to shut up?”

“As you command, Your Majesty.”

Cor’s bow was mocking, but there was wholehearted sincerity burning behind the twinkle in his eyes.

Noctis swung about, deciding he’d very much had enough of this conversation, thank you, and stamped back to his chair.

He caught Prom’s eye, and his bud gave him a small, bashful grin, which he returned with a shrug and a wink. Whatever he’d said to Cor had been the truth: if there were any big, scary decisions to be made, Noctis wanted that responsibility on _his_ shoulders and no-one else’s. But that didn’t stop him being just a little bit glad that he hadn’t had to decide how much his friend’s autonomy was worth.

“I would’a asked first. You know that, right?” he said, keeping his voice pitched low, but not enough to arouse suspicion.

Prom gave him a nod full of trust and fondness. “Yeah, I know.”

Noctis sighed, leaning back in his chair and taking out his phone, hoping he looked more composed than he felt. Prompto could probably hear his heart still trying to beat its way out of his chest, but to the others he hoped he appeared to have his shit together.

He didn’t look in Iggy’s direction, though, just in case.

Gladio leant over, giving Prompto a conspiratorial nudge with his elbow.

“So, Blondie, we miss anything good?”

Noctis shot Gladio a quizzical look. It matched Prompto’s, though his buddy’s quickly morphed into a chocobo-in-the-headlights stare, his body tensing in clear fight or flight reaction.

“I… uh… what?” he wheezed.

Gladio’s expression was deceptively placid; a brow raised as he waited for an answer. He leant forward, jerking a thumb at Noctis, though he still had his attention on Prom.

“I asked if we missed anything good? C’mon, don’t leave us hanging here, kid, tell us the juicy goss’.”

Noctis risked a glance to Ignis, and saw with dismay he was watching Noctis with that very careful Scienta Stare™. It had always guaranteed that whatever secret Noctis was keeping from Iggy at that moment was currently in the process of being picked apart and analysed with painful scrutiny.

“You could hear them, could you not, Prompto?” Ignis said, calmly, his eyes still on Noctis.

Noctis resisted the urge to gulp.

“Easy, kid, you look like you’re going to pass out,” Gladio snorted.

Realising he wasn’t being addressed, Noctis jerked his attention back to Prom; seeing that he did look two seconds away from literal full-body heat-death.

“We’re not mad,” Gladio said. His lips jerked upward in a self-depreciating smirk, before his gaze flickered across to Noctis, long enough to make his point. “…Not at you, anyway.”

“I agree, I am most chagrined to once again discover my own lack of awareness,” Ignis said, mildly. “Though I think the same cannot be said for our charge?”

Noctis bristled.

“Dude,” he hissed at Prom, “didn’t the Imps train you in interrogation techniques, or whatever?”

His words seemed to break the tension and Prompto out of whatever trance he was slipping into, as he’d hoped they would.

Prom jumped, gaze darting between all three of them. Whatever he saw had him relaxing just a little bit, from ‘shitting-his-pants’ Prompto, down to ‘sack-of-anxious-sunshine’ Prompto.

Eyes still on Gladio, he leant toward Noctis, until their heads were nearly touching, a hand cupping his mouth to hide it from the pair as he stage-whispered:

“Uh, yeah, dude. They’re like, _literally_ implanted into my friggin’ brain. You want me to start ‘number, rank, and designation’-ing these two? Iggy’ll make me into lunch, and Muscles McGhee’ll eat it!”

Noctis snorted, hearing ‘Muscle McGhee’ do the same. As useless as Prom seemed to be at hiding even a single lie, he was a master at deescalation.

Gladio sobered up after a few moments though, much to Noctis’s disappointment, and stabbed a finger meaningfully toward him.

“Tomorrow. AM. Training. I’m thinking heavy weapons, couple’a laps of the Outpost, a few dozen sparring matches...”

“Sounds fun,” Cor said, dropping back into his chair and making Prompto practically leap out of his skin. “Don’t forget we’ve got a base to take down first, though.”

Noctis swallowed down his objections and forced a smile, despite the way he had to grit his teeth together to do so.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he said.

~

Cor’s words rattled in Noctis’s skull, just as he was rattled hard against the solid brick of the ruins.

_“Remember: A king fights with dignity.”_

Noctis wiped a thin trail of blood from his upper-lip, and threw himself in a sideways roll to dodge the Axeman’s follow-up attack.

“I’ll get right on that,” he muttered again to himself as he threw his spear in the air, chasing it along lines of sapphire to bury it in the chest of a sniper.

“Less chatting, more stabbing, Sire.”

Noct resisted the urge to sass, and instead summoned the Axe of the Conqueror to cleave the remaining MT in half. Vertically.

“Eugh.”

“Hurry it up, we’re losing ground,” Cor grunted.

Noctis shook the last of the dissolving black viscera from his hands, and gave his surroundings a review. They stood at the edge of a fenceless drop, high up in the compound. Down led to the road, blocked at either end by thick metal gates, while to the sides and back led into the maze-like passages of the the ruins. The sound of fighting could be heard beyond the western gate, but his friends’ distraction was rapidly becoming less effective, as the message got around of just who it was who had breached their defences.

Knowing Cor could deal with the soldiers blocking the immediate drop, Noctis threw himself into the air, directly at the gate, in a series of mid-air volleys he’d taken years to perfect.

It still made him a little nauseous, not that he’d ever admit it.

The final lob of his knife had him land squarely on the gate, right next to the control panel. A quick zap of lightning bypassed the code (Which – _lucky_ – Noct had no idea how he would have got the doors open if it had fused them shut instead), and the doors were whooshing open as smooth as silk.

A pair of MT snipers turned at the sound, but both dropped to the dual bark of a gun, their falling bodies revealing Prompto behind them, weapon in hand. Ignis and Gladio were behind him, each finishing up with a few more guards between them.

“Noct!” Prompto beamed in relief, as if it had been days and not less than a half hour since they’d split.

Ignis’s own dagger disappeared into the armoury as he stood and straightened his jacket.

“Marshal. It’s good to see you again.”

“Alright on your end?” Noctis asked, rolling his eyes at his advisor at the intentional snub. He couldn’t tell, thanks to the way the bodies just evaporated on death, but by the minor dishevelment of all three, he could guess they’d had plenty to keep themselves busy with.

“Right as rain. The Niffs couldn’t take their eyes off us,” Gladio said, shouldering his greatsword with a smirk as all three came up to stand beside their prince.

“Thanks to you we were spared their attention,” said Cor, dropping in next to Noctis, but keeping himself turned to face the music. “Let’s get this place cleared out.”

“Oh well done. What splendid data.”

Noct’s head swivels toward the East gate, seeing a row of snipers lined up to face them, guns at the ready. They stayed motionless however, as a figure walked through their centre, coming to a stop a few paces in front.

“I had not appreciated the value of witnessing combatant field testing in person,” the man said, his tone affable, intelligent. He was dressed in civilian clothes, as much as any Niff clothing could be said to be civilian in style; a well-groomed beard softening his features. Nevertheless, there was something cold about him, a deadness behind the eyes that sent a chill up Noctis’s spine.

“Data on a pad really doesn’t convey the true experience. Such a pity my work does not permit me much opportunity to collect the information in person.” The man raised a hand, ignoring the way Noct’s own hand twitched in readiness, and a Sniper took two jerking steps forward.

“King Noctis Lucis Caelum,” he said, no hint of deference in his tone. “Might I prevail upon you to perform your warp-strike upon this unit? I would greatly appreciate a closer viewpoint.”

“I can give you an even closer one, you ass—” Noctis started forward, but was held back by a solid hand on his chest.

He glared at Cor, but the Marshal wasn’t looking at him.

“Research Chief Besithia, I assume?” he said, his voice completely devoid of emotion.

The ice inside Noctis turned to poison. His lips pulled back over his teeth in a snarl.

This guy. This _fucking_ guy was the one! He was the one who had— Noctis wanted to turn to Prompto, to make sure he was ok, but he couldn’t expose himself like that with so many guns pointed their way. Out of his peripheral he was aware of his best friend standing very still, but couldn’t make out the expression.

“ _Imperial Research Minister_ Besithia,” the man said, his own mouth tweaking downward slightly. “You I need no introduction for. I remember you quite well from the surveillance images, Marshal Leonis.” He tilted his head to the side. “Your lackeys, too, are known to me... And I see you’ve kept my unit in decent enough condition. Though the clothing you’ve chosen for it is non-standard, and is less than optimal for full range of movement. Has that hampered its performance? I would appreciate a full debrief from you on its return, if you would be so kind.”

Beside him, Prompto gave the barest of sounds; an inhaled, cut-off sob.

“His name is Prompto,” Noctis spat, reaching out and snatching hold of Prom’s wrist without having to break the man’s gaze. The skin under his fingers felt unnaturally cold, “…and he’s not going anywhere.”

Besithia gave a perplexed smile. “Curious. I would have thought the Lucian King above petty theft. I am simply asking for return of my property.”

“You don’t own him. _Nobody_ owns him,” Noctis snapped, swiping his other hand away from himself in fury. “You’ve got no single godsdamn claim on him—”

“Perhaps if you will not listen to the appeal of an owner, then you might of a parent?” Besithia said, his entire countenance innocently reasonable, “The proof of ownership is in his very genetic code, after all.”

 _“What the fuck?”_ Noctis heard Gladio rumble, and was inclined to agree. He slid his hand down Prompto’s wrist, finding the hand balled into a tight fist.

“Bullshit. We know he’s a clone,” he said, gently working the fingers loose and worming his own inside, until their hands were interlocked. He gave a squeeze, but got nothing in return. Prompto hadn’t so much as moved, his pulse unnervingly slow under Noctis’s fingers.

“Clones require a genetic blueprint, after all,” Besithia said, his voice silken and infuriatingly logical. “A blueprint _I_ provided. As its father, my claim on the unit is incontrovertible.”

“I—” Prompto gasped, the word exploding from him as if past an iron-clad wall. He paused to suck in another, shaking breath.

“I’m not your property,” he said, but the words were weak, wobbling on the edge of hearing. He didn’t meet their eyes, staring fixedly down at the earth, his hands clenched at his sides, tight around Noctis’s own.

“No?” Besithia tilted his head, and Prompto flinched. Noctis couldn’t blame him: the man was practically dissecting him with his eyes. He held on tighter, his thumb rubbing calming circles on the back of Prom’s hand.

“The identifier on your wrist would beg to differ, unit 05953234” the scientist said. He turned slightly, gesturing out behind the row of Snipers, who parted as two larger units stamped their way to the fore. “Perhaps you and your colleagues would care to compare it to those of its peers.” His smile was malicious as he spoke. “Surely you remember, 234? Units 237 and 229 were well known to you, after all.”

The pair were massive in comparison to the other MTs. One was lithe, it’s arms barely more than the swords they were shaped in, long legs bent at the ready, a coiled snake of a machine; the other was bulky, block-like arms and legs more akin to a MA-X unit than a humanoid. Both were entirely featureless, their faces flat plates of metal, which nevertheless emitted an air of menace.

Beside him, Prompto drew in a hard breath, his whole body shuddering.

“A-aevis?” he croaked, his voice wretched. “Telum?”

Noctis’s heart plummeted.

 _What the **fuck**_.

“Ah yes, those were the false designations chosen by your faulty counterparts,” Besithia said, snapping his fingers as if a puzzle had been solved. “I can never remember them... Rather simple, like your own, but then one mustn’t expect poetry from a machine.”

Noctis snarled, but his voice was hushed with the horrible reality of what they were facing. It probably hurt a little, how hard he was holding on to Prom’s hand, but he’d still given no sign he even felt him there.

Besithia was ignoring him.

“This is all becoming a bit of a family reunion,” he said, brightly. “Perhaps we should take a photograph to commemorate the occasion.”

“You shut the hell up, you sick fuck!” Noctis shouted, totally done with this bullshit. But before he could let out with any further invective, Prompto stirred.

“That’s not…” he stuttered, “They’re—” He cut himself off, sucking in a tight, shaky breath.

Noctis risked a glance at Prom, and saw his face was ash-grey, the lips almost blue, his bud clearly in shock; but his eyes were burning with indignant, aching fury.

“They’re _gone_ ,” he ground out, voice wet with sorrow. “You killed what was left of them the second you put them in those bodies. You thought I wouldn’t fight them because they were my brothers?" He thrust his hand out toward the row of soldiers and the empty metal shells which littered the base.

“Every soldier here, they’re _all_ my brothers. I’m not going to disgrace their memories by dying for their corpses.”

Noctis swallowed thickly. There wasn’t anything he could say to make this easier on his friend, so he simply squeezed his hand once more and hoped it was enough.

This time, Prompto squeezed back.

“Hmm,” Besithia said, his tone musing, “It seems your program has run a little _too_ effectively. I must say it exceeded even my expectations.”

Noctis felt his world implode; all the light and sound sucked up into a vacuum of pitch-cold dread at the implication of those words. The hand he held tensed, then went slack. From his other side , he thought he heard Cor mutter a quiet: “ _shit_ ”.

Noctis swung his head toward Prom fully, not caring about the danger, his grip tightening to compensate for Prompto’s release.

Prompto was even paler than before, a look of horror creasing up his tear-soaked cheeks. He gave a choked whine, shaking his head.

“N-no,” he stuttered, “y-you’re lying.”

“Prom, man, don’t listen to his bullshit,” Noctis said, tugging his arm gently to get his attention. “He’s just trying to mess with our heads.”

“A plausible, yet incorrect, assumption,” Besithia said, spreading his arms and shaking his head, “Admittedly it was an outlandish tactic, but I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to gather such unique field data. It’s not the first time, after all, that Niflheim has conducted covert sleeper operations, and you _navium_ are so easily overwritten… almost as if you were made for the task.” Besithia chuckled dryly at his own joke.

Noctis felt Prompto shudder, and then pull away. Looking into his best bud’s eyes he could see the conflict there, the horrified self-doubt.

“I… I didn’t…” he said, fixing Noctis with a pleading, heartbroken, _desperate_ gaze.

Noctis returned it with a sincere, if weak, smile. “It’s ok, bud. Even if what he’s saying is true? It doesn’t mean anything. I know you’re not going to betray me.”

Prompto’s face crumpled. “I won’t,” he sobbed, shaking his head, his shoulders drooping forward as he curled up in on his own grief. “I swear, I didn’t know.”

“I believe you, Prompto. I believe _in_ you.” Noctis rested his hand on his best friend’s shoulder and squeezed tight.

“Indeed,” Ignis said, from Prom’s far side, though the man didn’t take his eyes off the Imperial troops. “You are our ally, Prompto Argentum, and your own man. We know you shall not falter.”

“We’ve got your back, kid,” Gladio said, cracking his knuckles. “He wants to take you, he’s going to have to go through us.”

Their words had Prompto crying harder, his head ducking low to obscure his face as heaving sobs wrenched their way out of him. Noctis wished he could give the guy a hug, but that would definitely go beyond reasonable limits of guard-lowering behaviour right about now.

“You have your answer, _Imperial Research Chief_ ,” Cor said, his body settling into a threatening stance, arms folded across his chest and legs set wide. “I suggest you leave... Or do you really want all of us as your enemies right now?”

There was a frustrated huff from the Niff side of the compound.

“Really, such blind faith in the face of fact is unbecoming, Your Majesty.” Besithia wasn’t laughing any more. He raised a hand and gestured imperiously toward them.

“Your mission is complete. Kill the Lucians and come over here, unit 05953234.”

Prompto shuddered, and Noctis could see more tears drop down past the veil of his hair.

“You don’t have to listen to him, Prompto,” he said, gently, soft enough it wasn’t an order. “That crazy sonofabitch doesn’t control you.”

Prom nodded - jerkily - but a nod all the same. He sniffed firecely and rubbed his free arm roughly across his eyes, before standing up straight and glaring at Besithia, his jaw squarely set.

“ ** _No_**.”

“Hear that, you asshole?” Noctis sneered at the man. “Your bullshit mind games aren’t going to cut it.”

“That is as it may appear,” the Imperial said with a disappointed sigh, “but, thankfully, the situation does not exceed my projections.” He pulled out a small, black device from his coat pocket, and tapped something onto its surface.

“Wh— what are you d-doing?” Prompto demanded, his whole body trembling.

“Imprinted curiosity, interesting,” Besithia muttered, as if an aside, before pausing to look up from the screen and pin Prompto with his stare. “It’s a pity to lose such valuable experimental data, but what remains shall be more than adequate to justify the study costs.” He released Prompto to fix his gaze with Noctis. “I shall give you one last opportunity to hand over my property, King Caelum, before I am forced to extreme measures.”

“Screw you!” Noctis threw his knife into the air, directly at the scientist’s heart, and exploded into glittering blue light. Before he reached his destination, a blur of metal threw itself into his path. The tank-like MT – the one Prom had identified as Telum – grasped the knife handle, Noctis’s hand trapped in between, and the rest of him dangling from it, several feet from the ground.

“Very well,” he heard Besithia say from somewhere behind the metal juggernaut. “Perform Total System Wipe on Unit 05953234,” he instructed, the words followed by an electronic confirmation tone.

Prompto screamed.

Noctis had only once heard that kind of scream before: A Crownsguard, back in Noctis’s early teens, when an assassination attempt had gone badly wrong. The poison in his lacerated guts – healed into the flesh by a well-meaning but ill-advised potion – had taken long, dreadful minutes to kill him. His cries had echoed loud enough through the Citadel halls that Noctis’d heard them clearly, despite the distance his remaining bodyguard had fled with him. Crown scientists had later identified the source of the poison as a strain of plant toxin said to drive a person mad from agony before they died. It was a feral, primal cry of pure horror and agony. The sound of a person dying bad and slow.

The juggernaut’s grip around his trapped hand began to tighten to crushing levels. Swearing, Noctis dismissed his knife back into the Armiger, using the space it left behind to quickly wrench his hand free before it was pulverised. As he dropped he kicked out, using the MT’s breastplate to propel himself into a backflip away from the enemy. He felt the rush of a body flying past him in the other direction, Gladio’s accompanying roar enough to satisfy him he wasn’t going to be pursued. A blur of black and silver flashing past his other side told him Cor too was entering the fray, so he spared only a second to confirm he wasn’t in immediate danger before dashing back to Prompto’s side.

Ignis was there, kneeling over Prompto’s collapsed body, pulling him gently up from the foetal crouch he had slumped into. Noctis helped, surprised still at how heavy Prom was.

Like a puppet with cut strings, Prompto’s body rocked back on the pivot of his hips, his torso swaying briefly before he slumped back, head lolling in an uncontrolled arc which tipped his face up to the sky. Ignis caught him before he collapsed over completely, one hand cradling the back of his skull.

Prom was a mess. Blood trailed from his nose, ears, and eyes, while bloodied vomit and drool stained his chin, the rest of it on the ground before him. His eyes were the worst, staring wide and blank up at the night sky, with none of the wonder he’d had just a few hours before. For a moment Noctis thought they were only blood-shot, but the longer he looked the more he understood. The irises weren’t blue any more, they were red.

Red like an MT’s.

“Prom?” he asked, his hands on Prompto’s shoulders, squeezing and massaging them as if it would rouse him from whatever sleeping state he was currenly under. “Hey buddy, you okay?”

Prompto gave no indication he had heard, not a muscle twitching. Even his breaths were nearly too shallow to notice.

Noctis whirled around to Besithia, who he could still just make out beyond the wall of snipers. Cor and Gladio both were engaged with Telum and Aevis, making little headway toward the scientist. Some of the snipers were down, the rest silent and immoblie... just like Prom.

“What did you do to him?” he demanded.

“When a subject’s programming fails to meet results, said programming is terminated,” Besithia said, almost sounding bored. “I have merely cleared the vessel for repurposing.”

“You wiped his godsdammned _brain_?” Noctis seethed, jumping up, his sword materialising in his hand. “You’re a _monster_.”

“No, Your Majesty, the vessel at your feet is the monster,” Besithia said, his smirk visible even at this distance. “I merely facilitated its creation. A common enough mistake. Ah-uh—” he tsked as Noct made to warp forward once more. “—Do restrain yourself, Your Majesty. There are far more dangerous targets than I to concern yourself with.”

As he spoke, the tank-like MT smacked Gladio with a vicious side-swipe, sending him flying across the compound. It began to step backward then, until the snipers merged around it. When it reached Besithia’s side, the torso began to shudder and move. It lowered one of its arms and Besithia stepped up, climbing gracefully into the space within.

“A mockery of what I seek to achieve, but it shall suffice for the present,” the scientist said, as the panels began to close around him. “My presence shall only cause another variable in the output data, and I am so curious to observe the final stage of this experiment.”

Noctis was about to snarl a reply when there was movement behind him.

“Ah, good, the reboot was successful,” Besithia said, his words distorted from the metal he was not surrounded by. “Proceed with elimination protocol, 104. Subject: Caelum, Noctis Lucis.”

Noctis spun around, his eyes wide, and saw Prompto was on his feet, Ignis still on the ground, staring up at him in confusion. His body was at perfect military straightness, almost painfully rigid, but it was the gun in his hand that focused Noctis’s attention, pointing directly at his chest.

Noctis scoffed. “Oh, come on. He’s not going to sh—”

Prompto fired.

Thankfully at the same moment, Ignis caught him in a low tackle, and the shot flew wide, just grazing Noctis’s cheek instead of cutting a path through his temple. Noctis yelped, and rolled away from the spray of bullets that followed, Prompto still firing even as he and Ignis tumbled to the floor.

Noctis’s flight was halted by Gladio, who grabbed him out of the air and flung them both behind a stack of crates.

“If you say I told you so, I swear I’ll feed you to the next Iron Giant we meet,” Noctis snapped when Gladio opened his mouth. He stole a quick glance of the battleground: Cor and Avis were trading blows, the lithe MT moving with distressing speed and grace for a mindless machine, but Cor was holding his own. Prompto was advancing on Ignis, who was trying to keep out of grabbing range while avoiding the gun, deflecting more than one bullet that came too close to call.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Princess,” Gladio gave a humorless grin. “We need to get that gun off of him, think you can get your head out of your ass for two minutes to achieve that?”

“Sounds doable,” Noctis huffed and flung himself back out in a warp.

Ignis was fending off Prompto’s attack as well as he was able, but he was stuggling, and was a few seconds away from having his head caught in a crushing grip before Noctis collided with Prompto, feet first. Now wasn’t the time to be delicate. Prom wouldn’t break from an all-out attack, and anything less would just get them all killed.

True enough, Prompto barely staggered before catching Noctis’s leg and swinging him up and into the air, following his arc with a volley of shots. Cursing, Noct flung his dagger, not directly back toward Prom, but in a series of eye-blurringly fast mini-warps, zigzagging through the air in a way he hoped would evade a bullet. One did hit, but just, grazing his arm as he materialised right in front of Prompto. He kicked the gun out of his bestie’s hand, watching it shatter into crystals with satisfaction.

Prompto followed the momentum of the blow, swinging around in a graceful circle, the gun rematerializing in his other hand with a sweeping motion akin to grazing his fingers along the surface of a pool.

Noctis swore, unable to warp away in time.

Prompto fired, but this time Ignis was right there, the bullet ricocheting off the surface of his knife, held just below eye-level.

“Noctis, you must sever his link to the Armiger,” Ignis instructed.

“Not happening,” Noctis said stubbornly as they both leapt away in separate directions from another hail of bullets, only halted when Gladio crashed into Prom, locking his arms around his torso and pinning Prompto’s to his sides.

“Snap out of it, dude!” Noctis shouted, leaping forward just as Prom broke Gladio’s hold, following his arm’s upward swing over his head, and firing blindly behind him toward Gladio, only for the gun to be slapped out of his hand. It shattered and resolved in Prom’s other hand, this time firing toward Noctis.

Noctis grabbed the hand in both of his, twisting around until he was behind the weapon and then bringing the arm forcefully down onto his knee. The move would break a normal person’s wrist, but with Prompto is only managed to jar the gun free. Noctis knew he needed to keep Prom’s hands occupied so he couldn’t resummon, so interlaced his fingers with Prompto’s and then backstepped quickly, pulling his stance wide open and pivoting the other arm and its’ hand - holding the now-rematerialized gun - away from Gladio’s face in time for the bullets to go wide. When Prompto tried to point the gun at Noctis instead, Gladio knocked it out of harm’s way. Noct was wrenched about like a dog on a lead as the pair traded a few more near-misses, before Gladio too managed to knock the gun away into the Armiger, his own hand interlaced with Prompto’s.

“I have it,” Ignis called, brandishing the gun, still glitering with crystal light, from a safe distance, before secreting it into his jacket and out of harm’s way.

Relieved the danger was passed, Noctis tried to disengage. But even when he left go of Prom’s hand, Prompto’s grip remained solid.

Noctis and Gladio looked down at their respective hands, still held in Prom’s immovable grip, then toward their friend; who gazed blankly back.

“Uh-oh,” Noctis muttered, just before Prompto heaved, slamming the pair together like an overenthusiastic kid with a s’more.

Noctis _really_ wished it was marshmallow he was crushed against, rather than the solid wall that was Gladiolus Amicitia.

The impact released them from Prompto’s hold at least. As they fell, Gladio’s arms wrapped around Noctis, ever the shield; one hand supporting his head as he turned the fall into a roll. When they stopped, sore and disoriented, Noctis saw that Ignis had cut off Prompto’s advance and was currently dodging the Armiger lance, held in their friend’s all-too-confident grip.

“ _Titan’s nutsack_ , are we going to have to empty the entire Armiger?” Gladio groaned.

Noct was about to reply when a movement ahead caught his eye.

“Gladio!” he shouted, trusting the shield to know what he wanted even as he dissolved into blue light to reappear behind Prompto and Ignis, his sword deflecting Telum’s fist from its course in crushing the pair of them into the earth.

“Thought you were all about the ‘impartial observer’ crap?” he yelled, trying to shake the feeling back into his hand. 

“At times one must make concessions in favour of expediency,” Besithia said, as the MA-X type MT swung its other arm around, slamming into the earth where Noct had been, seconds before his warp. Before he could give chase, Gladio was there, his greatsword more than a match against the machine.

Noctis landed next to Ignis, gripping the spear that Prom stabbed toward him and using the force of the thrust to catapult him into the air away from them.

“Think you and Gladdy can keep the big guy busy?” he panted.

Ignis brandished the newly-relinquished spear with a nasty grin. “It would be my pleasure, my King. Please be so kind as to knock the senses back into our dear friend, if you would.”

“On it,” Noctis returned the grin with a stern nod.

“Do try not to sustain any injury,” Ignis called over his shoulder, “he’ll take it to heart so.”

Noctis snorted a laugh and launched himself into the air.

“Hey, buddy,” he said, landing in-front of Prompto and immediately leaning back out of the path of his swiping hand and the knife coalescing in it. “Whoa, watch it! You could put somone’s eye out with that thing.”

Prompto said nothing, not even showing any signs of reaction to Noctis’s words, his face still frighteningly blank. He launched forward, the knife stabbing out in efficient cuts as he pressed Noctis back.

“Prompto, hey, listen,” Noctis said, skipping backward, summoning the knife’s twin to parry the blows. “I know you’re having a tough time here, man, but I need you to snap out of it, okay?” He flinched as the blade cut too close, leaving a line of crimson along his ribs, thankfully not too deep. “Aw, I like this shirt,” he groused, “You know you’re the one who’s gonna stitch that, right?”

Noctis yelped as Prompto swung a leg up, aiming for his head, his boot colliding against Noctis’s guard. He caught the leg but Prompto didn’t seem phased – didn’t seem _anything_ – simply leaping forward in an attempt to slam his other knee into Noctis’s face. He dodged the blow, flinging them both backward in a move that had his spine screaming, and coming out on top to pin Prom to the floor – or at least _trying_ to. Even though he leant all his weight on the guys’ arms, Prom was still able to raise his knife hand, punching Noctis in the face with the handle.

Pain exploded along his jawline along with a distinct snapping sound Noctis heard from _inside_ his own skull. Blinded by tears of agony, and what was at the very least a ruptured socket, he threw out his knife, warping blindly and falling into a roll when he emerged. An elixir was already in his hand before he completed the dive, sorry experience telling him the damage wasn’t something a simple potion could fix. The right side of his face felt _pulverised_ , he was lucky Prom hadn’t caved in his skull.

“Under control?” Cor grunted from somewhere nearby, as the waves of healing magic caressed Noctis’s smashed bones and cartilage together. When the light faded enough for him to get a good look of his surroundings, he saw Cor was in a standoff with Aevis, the mecha’s one remaining arm locked against the marshal’s own sword.

“More or less,” Noctis said, standing and cracking his neck to get the residual stiffness out. Prompto was advancing on his position; a steady, unhurried pace that was menacing as all hell.

“Pick up the pace, Sire. You’re the only one with a chance to get through to the kid,” Cor said, pushing back against the MT’s blade and bringing their swords together again with a ringing clash.

“Working on it,” Noctis said, and jogged back toward his friend.

“Okay, Prom-a-lom,” he called out in a sing-song voice, “time’s up. You need to get it together, bud.”

Prompto threw the dagger at his face, snatching it back from the Armiger the second Noct deflected the blade into crystalline shards. He repeated the attack, but this time followed up with an overarm sweep of the Axe of the Conqueror that would have done to Noct what he’d done to that Axeman MT not so long ago, if he didn’t lurch to the side at the last minute. The axe head stuck deep into the ground, and Prom dropped the handle, then took a running leap using the axe shaft as a step, closing the distance between them and aiming a devastating blow again at Noctis’s face.

Noctis flung himself out of the way, staring wide-eyed at the mini crater Prompto’s fist made in the dirt.

“Whoa! Have I told you recently how freaking _badass_ you are?”

Prompto rose, not even bothering to shake the concrete from his knuckles, instead throwing feet and fists at Noctis, which he barely managed to avoid.

“Right, Prom, I didn’t want to do this, but you’re kind’a leaving me no choice here, bud.” Noctis panted, his arms stinging as he deflected another heavy kick. He was going to be one big bruise by the end of the night.

“Okay, don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he said sternly. “Remember that sunset a couple’a hours ago? How sweet was that, dude? You told me all about the colours, the – uh – reds and oranges, and – what was it you called it? Cerise? Is that a colour?”

Prom pulled out his knife again and Noctis ducked the first swipe, summoning his own to block the downward swipe, his hand on the flat of the blade. Thank the Astrals Iggy and Gladio were using the spear and greatsword, ‘cause he definitely didn’t want to see either of those in Prompto’s more-than-capable hands.

“No dice on the sunset, huh?” he continued gamely, throwing Prom off enough that he could roll away and leap to his feet, just in time to block another blow. “What about food then, huh? Remember those fries this morning? How ‘bout that steak, huh?”

Their knives rang, blades glittering as they traded blows. Prompto’s face was still a blank mask, his eyes dull and without that spark of vitality Noctis always associated with his bubbly bestie. It was probably the only reason Noctis was alive, he had to admit to himself; the attacks lacking in Prom’s usual innovative flair. He adapted well enough to the ever-changing pace of the fight, but his movements were procedural – _robotic_.

“Seriously? Not even the curry? You remember Iggy’s curry, don’t you? You don’t want to make Spec’s mad, do ya?”

Prompto dropped into a crouch, sweeping Noctis’s legs out from under him. He landed on his back hard, frantically flinging up his knife to meet Prompto’s just as he landed on top of him, pinning him to the ground with his hips, exerting so much pressure Noctis could barely draw breath.

 _Aw, shit_.

Prompto leant forward, applying steady pressure against Noctis’s blade. Their faces were an arm’s length apart, close enough for Noctis to see the blue peeking between the red of his eyes, slowly gaining ground like Noctis’s did after a summon.

The pressure on his chest was becoming unbearable, his arms screaming in protest as Prompto’s immeasurably greater strength came to bear against them. The knives sank further toward Noctis’s face, his own desperate gaze reflected into fractals on their surface.

“Come on, man,” he groaned, wincing as sweat stung his eyes, “You h-have... to... remember.”

Still Prom said nothing. It was like talking to a wall; or another faceless MT, single-minded on its intent to kill.

“Y-you’re Prompto,” Noctis gasped, “P-Prompto Argen—Argentum. Aevis, he named you Prompto, because you’re the fastest. You’re faster than Cor the Immortal, dude. Cause you’ve got _wings_ in you, Prom-pom. You’re the fastest man alive.” He frowned, thinking, even as he strained against the knife, barely an inch from his face. “I… I don’t know who called you Argentum, or why... I never asked you, huh? That’s my bad… Argent-tum… Silver… cause of the MT thing? Quick… silver… _heh_. That’s kind’a awesome.”

It might have been his imagination, but for a fraction of an instant, the pressure Prompto exerted against his blade appeared to falter.

With a twist, Noctis dislodged Prom’s grip, just like he’d done a thousand times with Iggy in the practice gym, sending Prom’s knife skittering away.

Prompto lunged, hands outstretched, completely disregarding the knife still in Noctis’s grip, the point raised up toward his unprotected chest.

Noctis had one second to decide. But that was more than enough.

The knife disappeared back into the Armiger.

Noctis lay back, letting his arms fall to his sides, entirely vulnerable. He looked up into Prompto’s vacant, red-stained eyes, and smiled.

Prompto stared back, without recognition, and wrapped his hands around the prince’s throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nervous_laughter_what_the_fuck.gif


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I posting this at insane o'clock, completely out of release schedule? Yes. Yes I am.  
> Will I still be posting the final chapter on Wednesday? Yes. Yes I will.  
> Is this an apology to everyone who was NOT OKAY after last week's chapter? ....Yes. Yes it is.
> 
> cw/ attempted suicide
> 
> Aw heck, here we go. T x

Unit 05953234 is malfunctioning.

Unit 05953234’s orders are to terminate the target.

The target is Caelum, Noctis Lucis.

Unit 05953234 has Target: Caelum, Noctis Lucis’s neck in its grip, but has yet to exert adequate pressure to snap the vertebrae.

Unit 05953234’s limbs are malfunctioning. Its hands are not obeying instructions to snap the target’s vertebrae.

Something the target said is repeating itself in Unit 05953234’s auditory memory.

_“Quicksilver… That’s kind’a awesome”._

Unit 05953234’s visual memory overlay is malfunctioning. An image of an unknown time and location is being displayed. Unit 05953234 and the target are in visual range upon a field of grass. Both are of smaller mass than their current vessels – mid-L1 phase by Unit 05953234’s estimation. It is day time. They are lying on the grass, side by side. They seem to be occupied in monitoring the progression of wind-propelled meteorologic formations across the lower atmosphere.

_“Nah, it’s gotta be, like, cool, y’know,”_ the young Target: Caelum says, _“What’s the point in being able to choose your own surname if you’re going to pick “Tree””._

_“I like trees,”_ the L1 Unit 05953234 says. Its voice is hesitant, but more defiant than Unit 05953234 would ever dare use in auditory range of a human.

Unit 05953234 braces for sanctions, but none come.

If L1 Unit 05953234 is sanctioned, it does not display any outward signs.

The young Target: Caelum laughs.

_“You’re such a nerd.”_

_“Is “Nerd” an appropriate name?”_ L1 Unit 05953234’s voice is cautiously hopeful.

Young Target: Caelum laughs again, for longer this time. The L1 Unit 05953234 watches him with an apparent lack of concern, though its face displays mild confusion at this odd behaviour.

_“Iggy doesn’t think so,”_ the young Target: Caelum says, wiping his eyes, which are damp.

_“Happy tears_ ,” another voice says, one Unit 05953234 remembers, but cannot place. By the pair’s lack of reactions, it seems the words are for Unit 05953234 alone.

Unit 05953234’s eyes are malfunctioning. Liquid is leaking from them. This time it is salinated water, and not blood. Unit 05953234 does not think they would be categorised under the same designation as the young Target: Caelum’s.

_“It is evident my experience in the area of names is insufficient to make an appropriate decision._ ” L1 Unit 05953234 says, sounding defeated.

_“Aw, nah, man, you just need a bit of help,”_ young Target: Caelum huffs, the hair that falls before his eyes fluttering upward briefly. He nudges L1 Unit 05953234 in its side, and it fails to defend against the attack, or retaliate with even token force.

_“You gotta quit talking like that, too, y’know? You sound like a total square.”_

_“My speech is inappropriate?”_

Unit 05953234 is as perplexed as its L1 counterpart. It was unaware speech contained a geometric value.

The young Target: Caelum turns his head toward L1 Unit 05953234 and smiles. His shoulders tilt upward briefly in a carefree shrug.

_“I mean, it’s okay… it’s kinda like those mecha tv shows, y’know? Like Zeta Fundam Megapunch High? You sound like one of the robots— hey! I’ve got it!”_

Both iterations of Unit 05953234 startle at the exclamation, but young Target: Caelum does not appear to be concerned.

_“How about Silver?”_

_“Silver?”_ the L1 Unit 05953234 asks.

Unit 05953234 also repeats the word, though it makes barely any sound, the action involuntary. It feels odd. Strange and unnatural, yet familiar. Like stepping into an MT suit, but one that fits Unit 05953234 as easily and naturally as its own flesh.

_“Yeah!”_ the young Target: Caelum sits up and turns to L1 Unit 05953234, his speech fast and excitable _, “‘Cause all the robots in it are like, metal, right? And they have names that go with what metal they’re made out of. And—oh! That totally goes with Prompto! Cause that means ‘quick’, so you’d be ‘Quicksilver’. Whoa… you’d sound like a superhero, dude! You gotta go with that!”_

Unit 05953234’s visual memory overlay process terminates, the malfunction resolved. But now, Unit 05953234’s mouth is malfunctioning. It is attempting to speak. Speaking is unnecessary. It has its orders but it is not obeying.

“You did,” it says, the words rising from its subprocesses, unbidden. Its voice is shaking, mimicking emotion, though its own reasoning is unknown.

“You gave me that name… Silver… A-Argentum.”

Target: Caelum is smiling. His smile grows wider, even as Unit 05953234’s tears fall and contaminate his cheek.

“Yeah? Sounds like something I’d do. I _am_ pretty amazing like that.”

“Prompto Argentum,” Unit 05953234 repeats. “That is… my designation…”

“Yup.”

This is incorrect. Pro—Unit 05953234 is malfunctioning. Its orders are to terminate Target: Caelum.

But…

If it… _he?_ continues this course of action he— _it?_ will cause irreparable damage to Target: Cael… to Noctis.

Unit Argentum’s orders are to terminate the target. He cannot disobey.

He remembers a knife in his hand, the face below him a mess of blood as his fist makes contact with it. He remembers more than a dozen cuts; dozens more kicks and punches; bullet wounds… blood and bruises he categorises and quantifies into a neatly horrifying list. The level of his betrayal – his orders – his _failure_ – is overwhelming.

“Kill me,” he croaks.

Noctis Caelum’s eyes turn sad. Distressed. Displeased?

“No can do, bud. I need you here with me, Prompto,” he says, tears in his own eyes. “I love you, man.”

Prompto Argentum’s hands shake. They should tighten around Noct’s neck, but he can’t make them do anything other than slacken, dropping several inches to rest on the target’s collarbone. His fingers wind into the shirt, gripping tight, but not enough to cause damage to the fabric. He knows his own strength. Has seen what he is capable of. He is a machine, built for death.

His tears are falling rapidly now, his vision compromised. He is trembling. His whole body aches. Burns. Screams.

He sucks in a deep breath, chest heaving in great, wracking sobs. Uncontrolled. Unwanted. Unnecessary.

But to Noct he’s never been any of those things. He’s just Prompto.

Prompto Argentum.

“Love you t-too, ya big dork,” he chokes, trying to crack a smile but knowing he’s failing miserably. Knows Noct won’t mind that he failed.

Noct’s grin is wide, the lines on his face loosen, just a little. He reaches a hand up, resting it against Prompto’s hands. He looks utterly exhausted.

“Welcome back, buddy.”

“I—” Prompto is overwhelmed, guilt crashing into him in waves of nausea. He feels dizzy with the knowledge of all he’s done. His whole body is shaking. Distantly he realises his temperature readout is missing, which would have been really reassuring right now, given how he feels simultaneously freezing cold and boiling hot all over.

“Oh _Astrals_ Noct,” he chokes, scrambling to find any words which will convey the depth of his remorse, “I’m… I…”

“Not your fault,” Noct’s smile twitches up at a corner into something more teasing, “And seeing Badass Ninja Assassin Prompto? Totally worth it.”

Prompto feels a laugh bubbling up from beneath the layers of sludging shame and self-revulsion. He pushes it back down before it has a chance to crush his heart.

“Th—this is serious, dude. I was gonna kill you!”

“I’m super serious, man,” Noct says, pulling a _super-seriously-unserious_ face, “I’m telling you, tomorrow we’re are going to _spar_ , my dude," he pauses, wincing, and another lance of shame pierces Prompto's chest. “...the day _after_ tomorrow... And you better be bringing you’re A-game or I’ma set Gladio and Cor on you.”

Prompto knows this tactic from years of teasing, and his response comes out as rote, even if its shaky and weak, “Oh shit... and you can do that cause you’re the King.”

“Yup! So you better watch—”

“How disappointing.”

Besithia’s voice cuts though a second before one of Telum-that-was’s arms slams into Prompto and sends him flying.

“It seems the software is corrupted,” the scientist says, batting away Noct’s counterattack as he lunges up at him, sword in hand. He doesn’t even look over to Prom as he struggles back up onto his feet, though Prompto isn’t certain he can even manage that. Besithia’s voice drags its claws into his brain and now he’s doing everything he can to stop the violent shaking and soul-crushing terror the man invokes within him. For a brief moment he tries to keep a hold of the peaceful feeling Noct had instilled within him, but the toxic mire of dread smothers everything in its path. He sees only the scientist, hears only his words; clear and without emotion, as they always have been:

“You have reached the end of your usefulness, my son… Conduct self-termination procedure: Zeta-one.”

Prompto’s body goes numb. His mind empties.

Noct’s knife appears in his hand, the act of drawing it from the aether near-to instant after the command.

Not hurting Noct is one thing, but he can’t summon that same conviction when it comes to his own preservation. Prompto has been built for a purpose, and now there is no more use for him. He is corrupt. Worthless. Defunct.

Everything else fades away as he looks at the knife’s shining surface – polished with utmost care by his own hands that morning. It is a simple thing, but efficient in purpose. Made to kill. To be used until it broke, and then thrown away.

_What difference is there, really, between it and him?_

He lifts the blade, placing the tip against his throat, both hands on the hilt. Takes a steady breath. Pulls the blade away to build up momentum.

“You don’t have to do this, Prompto.”

_—Prompto blinked._

Blinked again.

Ignis. Ignis was standing at his side, his eyes kind and understanding.

They watched one-another for a long moment; Ignis’s gaze steady, his posture certain.

Prompto could feel his hands tremble. He wouldn’t be able to hold them still for much longer.

“Order me,” he croaked.

“Never.” Ignis smiled in the face of Prom’s visible confusion. “Your life is your own, Prompto, to do with as you decide. I shan’t take that right from you, ever again. You must choose for yourself, my friend, to stay your own hand.”

Prompto’s hands shook with the conflicting forces of emotion and duty. But decades of training overwhelmed the few days he’d spent gloriously free.

“I can’t… I _can’t_ ,” he moaned. The blade began to creep toward his throat and he sobbed, eyes fixed on the glistening surface.

Ignis moved, deliberate and sure. He raised his right hand, placing it squarely between the knife and Prompto’s neck.

“I never said I’d play fairly,” he said, returning Prompto’s look of horror with a sardonic smile.

“I-Ig—! M-move your hand!”

“I cannot.”

“You’re gonna get h-hurt!”

“Better me than you, dear friend.”

Prompto’s breaths were rapid, quickly descending into panic. He let go of the knife with one hand even as it continued its slow approach, and tried to pull Iggy’s arm away, but the man caught his wrist with his free hand, the other not moving an inch from its position.

It should have been easy for Prom to overpower the man, but he felt weak, powerless to stop Ignis, or himself.

“P-please, Iggy. I can’t stop. I can’t—” Prompto cut himself off with a wail as the knife began to pierce Ignis’s skin, right in the centre of the palm.

“Iggy, stop. Stop, please. Just let it go. Let me go, please. Iggy. Iggy, stop!” He was babbling. Begging. Distraught. He felt sickened to his core. But still he couldn’t pull away.

Ignis gave an unaffected shrug, his expression flatly unemotional.

“It doesn’t hurt,” he said.

“Wh-what?! Of course it hurts! _Please_ Iggy.”

“On the contrary, I don’t feel a thing.”

“B-Bullshit! You’re _bleeding_ —”

“Prompto,” Ignis fixed him with calm, grey eyes, “You’re arguing with me.”

Prompto froze, suddenly dizzy. He waited for the explosion of pain along his nerves, the liquid fire and buzzing electrical agony of disobedience.

But none came.

Ignis kept his grip on Prompto’s hand, his gaze just as steady.

“Am I your enemy, Prompto Argentum?”

Prompto tried to swallow, his mouth dry, and throat itching with yet more tears.

“O-of course n-not…” he said, eyes blurring again.

“No,” Ignis affirmed, his voice and gaze so gentle. “No, we are not enemies. In fact, we are friends, are we not?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Prompto choked. Tears spilled over, scattering down his cheeks and onto their joined hands. Ignis’s blood was oozing around the wound, running down the blade and staining his fingers, but the knife didn’t move any further.

“Yes. We are friends,” Ignis said, sounding proud. Not just proud that Prompto had spoken, but proud of _what_ Prompto had said; proud to be Prompto’s friend. As he spoke, he released Prompto’s hand, holding his palm up and waiting; and slowly, oh so slowly, Prompto let the knife drop into it, where it shattered into nothingness.

Blood welled from Iggy’s wound without the blade to stem it, and Prompto hurriedly clasped their hands together, trying to stem the flow.

“We are friends with whom you can argue,” Ignis was saying, completely ignoring the injury, “Friends with whom you can be yourself. Friends who encourage you, and acknowledge you for who you are, Prompto Argentum: a truly exceptional human being, and a comrade of our hearts. You are more than what you were born to be, and far more than what that man claims you are...”

He placed his uninjured hand over Prompto’s own.

“…Do you really believe he has any power over you, after all you have achieved – despite his best efforts to thwart you?”

Prompto shook his head violently, dropping it and squeezing his eyes tightly closed against that revelation.

“I don’t… I don’t want…”

“What _do_ you want, Prompto Argentum?” Ignis’s voice was tender, but firm.

Prompto knew whatever answer he gave, Iggy wouldn’t be angry, or disappointed in him. There were no wrong answers. No impending sanctions. Just a choice.

_Prompto’s_ choice.

He shuddered, drawing himself up to his full height. His breath shook and his tears flowed unchecked, but when he spoke, his voice was filled with calm, vehement certainty.

“ ** _I wanna kick his ass_**.”

Ignis’s smile was not a nice one – thin and predatory, like a hunting coeurl’s; but it mirrored Prompto’s triumph, pleased all the same. He pulled his hands away and stepped aside. His uninjured hand went to his jacket and withdrew the confiscated gun, holding it out toward Prompto as he nodded toward the enemy.

“Get to it then, my friend. Show that man who dares call himself ‘father’ just who you truly are. We shall have your back. Always.”

Prompto nodded resolutely, taking the weapon and starting forward. He hesitated after a pace and glanced at Iggy’s hand, hanging at the man’s side, the blood dripping steadily upon the floor, ignored still by its owner.

“It doesn’t hurt,” Ignis said, his eyes narrowing in a challenge, even as they sparkled with humour to match his wry smile.

“You’re so full of it, Iggy,” Prompto snorted, returning the smile with a grin of his own. Then he turned back to the fight, a frown slipping into place as went to meet his creator.

Cor had Aevis-that-was well under control, the mech close to collapse, sparking and leaking miasma. The rest of the Snipers were piles of metal and black miasma on the ground, likely caught up in the crossfire. Gladio and Noct were trading blows with Besithia; the mecha suit completely impervious to their attacks.

Prompto knew that wasn’t strictly true. You just had to know where to stick the knife.

Or in this case…

He raised the gun Noct had gifted him. He didn’t need even a second to sight his target; lifting and firing with a precision long-since beaten into his bones.

_Thanks for that, daddy dearest._

The bullet found its mark, entering the joint of an arm at the elbow and disabling it. The limb dropped, hanging uselessly.

Prompto advanced, taking measured strides. With each step he fired off another round; each one finding its mark.

The mech stuttered to a groaning halt and its legs buckled, falling to its knees; arms both immobilised now at the shoulders.

Prompto fired off one last shot, this one catching the head casing and sending it flying.

Noct and Gladio traded a glance, then stepped back, melting away into Prompto’s periphery.

Besithia looked out at him, unphased. His eyes glittered madly, the way they always had when he was solving a puzzle.

— _A scalpel held over Prompto’s face. An endless stream of muttering. Sterile, electric buzzing of fluorescent lighting and medical equipment, ready to take him apart_ —

“Fascinating. Fascinating. Such a splendid retention of the Ego. Such defiance. I look forward to pursuing this further back at the Seminarium.”

Prompto let the gun fizzle back into the aether. He strode up the mech’s outside casing until he reached its centre, face-to-face with its inner monster, and curled his fingers over the lip of the breastplate, before ripping it from its rivets.

“Get out of my brother’s corpse, you _sick_ _bastard_.”

Even completely exposed, the scientist didn’t seem troubled.

“Hmm, physical strength appears to have increased beyond previous capability testing range.”

Prompto took two fistfuls of Besithia’s coat at the neck and dragged him out of the armour casing, stepping back until he stood on the compound floor, their faces inches apart.

— _Eyes roving the deconstruction of Prompto’s face speculatively, but without emotion. Searching for the solution to a problem. The blade is raised once more_ —

“Shut up.”

Prompto’s voice was a lot calmer than he’d expected it to be. Still, it must have carried some weight to it, because Besithia’s constant stream of consciousness was cut short.

“Shut up,” Prompto repeated anyway, liking the way it sounded. Amazed he _could_ say it. Finally.

“I’m not going back to the Seminarium,” he said, letting Besithia find his feet and then stepping back a little, giving himself some distance, though he still didn’t let go of the man’s coat. “I’m not going back to the lab, or the training rooms, or my shitty little pod. I’m not going to eat your damn nutrition cubes, or let you inject me with crap, and I’m _not_ going to do what you tell me to do.”

Prompto paused, chin raised defiantly, waiting to see if any of that had gotten through, searching the scientist’s face for some clue he understood.

“Such an interesting subject,” Besithia murmured, “A complete failure, of course, but many breakthroughs are achieved in such a manner. The solution to my greatest stumbling block may lie within its genetic structure, in the neurons within its brain.”

Prompto dropped his head between his arms, almost needing to support himself against the man as a heady feeling of – what? …Relief? Disappointment? Acceptance? – washed over him.

Whatever it was it left him feeling tired.

Just.

_So_ tired _._

He chuckled weakly.

This. This was the man who’d made his life a waking hell for all his years. This was the man who had instilled such terror, caused such pain, who had… had…

“Hmm? What was that? Speak clearly, Unit 05953234.”

Prompto looked up. Fixed eyes with his creator. Was gratified to see a spark of caution bleeding into the man’s expression at what Besithia saw within him.

“You made me hate food.”

“What?”

“ **YOU MADE ME HATE FOOD!** ” Prompto roared, and slammed his fist into Besithia’s face.

He didn’t use anywhere near the fullness of his force – just about the same as Gladio might manage on a good day. Prompto didn’t want to kill the man.

Not right away.

He struck twice more before allowing the scientist to drop, stunned and already bleeding, to the ground. Then Prom was on top of him, pining him like an MT on a lab table, as he gave vent to his pain. One blow for Telum; one for Brevis; for Laetus; for Aevis. For the thousands before and thousands after. For cold showers, and hot poison poured into his veins. For the pitch black of the pods, and the blinding light of the labs. For the training. The sanctions. For the little boy on the ground, dragged away like garbage. For the little boy who became a weapon, just to have the hurting end. For the little boy whose wings were clipped before he could fly. For all the ones who would never see the million, million stars in the night sky, or a sunset over a distant horizon, or the smiles of three friends around a campfire as they shared far more than a meal together.

A hand grabbed his wrist, and it took considerable willpower not to wrench it away, if only to prevent Gladio from sustaining permanent injury.

He glared up at the Hand, his image blurred by tears; fury and outrage bubbling inside.

“What?” he snarled, “Don’t tell me you’re against this?!”

“Nah, I’m not gonna say he doesn’t deserve it,” Gladio said, his teeth bared in a grim smile that contained no humour, “But _you_ don’t, kid. This prick needs to die, and you’ve got the right to see it through; but don’t give up your humanity just because he gave up his.”

Gladio let go of Prompto’s arm, holding out his discarded gun instead.

“He thinks you’re a monster... You gonna prove him wrong?”

Prompto gulped back tears, his chest heaving with stuttered emotion. He stared at the gun, then back down at Besithia; his face ruined, barely conscious; then down at his own fists, covered in his maker’s blood.

_Shit_. He was right.

Prompto didn’t like it, but Gladio was right.

Sucking in a shaky breath, he reached out, taking first the gun and then the offered hand, Gladio keeping it there until Prom was stable enough to stand on his own. He kept his eyes on Prompto’s, nostrils flaring slightly and broad chest rising as he drew in a slow, deliberate breath.

_In for four, out for eight._

Prompto gave an acknowledging nod, watching as Gladio stepped back a pace, giving him space. He closed his eyes, forcing himself through three cycles; then opened them again.

He raised his gun, calculating the correct angle that would cut a path through all major cerebral hemispheres and exit through the spinal cortex. A clean, fractionally instant, _undeservingly merciful_ death.

His finger squeezed the trigger.

A bolt of force hit Prompto squarely in the chest, sending him flying backward, half the length of the compound. His gun flew from his grip, shattering into crystals, Besithia’s bullet still within its chamber. Prompto crashed down hard, not sure if it was the landing or the shot responsible for the vice-like pressure across his chest. His skin smouldered in a ragged circle, his t-shirt obliterated, along with several layers of skin and tissue beneath. Lifting his head over the smouldering mess, he could see a second MA-X standing in Prompto’s previous position above Besithia, it’s gun barrel still glowing from the shot. If he’d been fully human it would have cut straight through him.

Gladio groaned somewhere to his right, a physical blow from the other arm a likely culprit.

“Stay right where you are,” an imperious voice from inside the mecha called, “…It seems the good doctor underestimated you.”

A flash of blue signalled Noctis’s counterattack, but the warp sputtered and stalled, his magic depleted before he reached the target, and he was swatted out of the air almost lazily.

“Alas, today is not the day of our fated confrontation,” the voice said. It crouched, picking Besithia up by the waist so that he drooped carelessly from its hand.

“You may have survived the Citadel, but you won’t survive what I have in store for you at our next confrontation,” the voice declared.

Prompto didn’t even have enough air in his lungs to shout his impotent range as the mech launched into the sky. It landed on a dropship that hovered above the compound, standing to watch them as the doors slid closed before it.

“It’s past time your legend came to an end,” the voice sneered, just before the doors clanged shut.

Prompto let his head fall back heavily against the ground, eyes pressed tightly closed. He clamped his bloody teeth together, giving vent to his frustration and fury with a guttural scream, only to cough and wheeze as he fought to draw air into his abused lungs.

With a crunch of gravel and tinkling of breaking glass, Noct was suddenly kneeling at his side, smashing a high potion against his wound.

Prompto gasped, sucking in a lungfull of sweet, free air.

His next breath came out more like a sob.

Noct snatched up his hand, holding it between his own.

“Prom... I’m here for you, bud.”

His eyes were shrouded, the threat of stasis ringing them Crystal-blue, and his expression was pinched in equal parts anger, sorrow, and exhaustion. He looked just about as miserable as Prompto felt. But he was here. He was by Prom’s side. Despite everything. Despite what Prompto—

Heaving another sob, Prompto rolled toward Noctis, disengaging his handhold in favour of wrapping his arms tightly around Noct’s torso, his face buried against his best-friend’s stomach.

One of Noct’s arms surrounded his shoulders, the hand gripping his upper arm tight. His other arm enclosed the back of Prom’s head, the fingers tangled in his hair.

“I know, Prompto. I’m sorry. I’m here with you, buddy. We all are,” he heard Noct murmur in a soothing litany, as Prom fought not to fall apart. “You’re gonna be ok – Royal decree, you hear me? You did so good, I’m so proud of you. I’ve got you, Prompom. You’re safe. I love you and I’ll never let you go.”

Prompto gasped in a tight, shaking breath, his lungs and heart burning.

He wasn’t alone.

He was safe.

He was forgiven.

He was loved.

He wasn’t okay… but he was going to be.

Prompto let go and _wailed_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;D;


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhhh, it's finally heeere! Thank you everyone, so so so much for all your kind words and encouragement! I admit I ran out of spoons for a while, but you gave me the power to give the Chocobros the end to the story they deserved! This year has not been kind to any of us, but if this story helps to provide even a tiny diversion from everything else in the world then it was worth it.
> 
> If you have any suggestions from this or other fandoms that you'd like to see I'm always open to new ideas! I always write to get the noise out of my head and onto the page, so there's room in here just now for a new story to grow if anyone has any seeds!
> 
> For those of you who read my Alt works, I'm working on a few things just now so will hopefully have something up soon! (That's all with the big caveat that things are probably going to get messy again in the near future work/life-wise, but I'll keep doing my best! 💪)
> 
> Lots of love and positive feelings to you all. T x

Epilogue

The sky above Wiz’s chocobo post was an idillic blue, the sun bathing the earth in a rich glow. It turned the feathers of the chocobos to liquid gold; a colour matched by the hair of the kid who fed them, styled into a bird-like plume.

(Noct had taken to calling it a ‘Prom-padour’ – much to Gladio’s disgust. The first time he’d used the term, Prompto had laughed soda out of his nose, which only encouraged the young king to use it more.)

Prompto held a bunch of greens in his hand, cooing and chuckling as the mare before him carefully plucked each stalk free. When it was finished, she nuzzled at his empty palm with her beak, before taking half a step forward to knock her forehead against his chest. The boy yelped, unbalanced, his hands coming up to grasp the downy ridges of her cheeks and turn his fall into a controlled sink to the ground. Once safe, he switched his grip to a firm caress, fingers teasing at the plumage, working knots free; to which the chocobo gave an appreciative trill, her head resting on Prompto’s knees.

Cor was aware of someone approaching from the side – Gladio, judging by the heavy saunter; though he wasn’t going to tear his gaze from the scene to check.

“Did he cry?” he asked when whoever it was stopped at his side.

Gladio’s snort confirmed Cor’s assumption. “Like a baby... Kid’s more smitten with them than with Noct.”

“I find that unlikely.”

“ _Heh_ , yeah… but it’s a close thing.”

Cor kept his peace, happy to observe for as long as Prompto didn’t notice. Boy would become instantly shy, Cor had no doubt, if he knew he was being watched. His powers of observation might have been reduced from ‘spooky savant’ down to merely ‘freakishly talented’ since the Blockade, but there was only so much attention one could pay to one’s surroundings when a full grown chocobo was attempting to climb onto one’s lap.

Ignis had briefed him on the glasses, so Cor wasn’t at all surprised by the garishly bright-red, yet discreetly-sized frames; which were even now threatening to be knocked from the kid’s head by the over-eager chocobo.

As he turned to leave, Gladio clapped a hand on Cor’s shoulder in a casual farewell, hard enough to buckle a normal person’s knees; but it was a game they’d been playing ever since Gladio had reached matching heights with the marshal, and Cor remained as solid as he ever had. One day, perhaps, he’d drop to the ground; see how the kid reacted. But today he was content to keep the status quo.

Cor gave it a few minutes. The kid deserved that at the very least. Then he approached the chocobo and her demi-chocobo playmate.

“Hey.”

Prompto startled, nearly expelling the chocobo from his lap, who in turn gave an indignant “ _wark!_ ” and nipped at his hair.

“Oh, h-hey, Marshal.”

“The glasses suit you.”

“Th-thanks,” Prompto straightened, a hand going up to self-consciously adjust the frames. “Turns out my chip was compensating for an optical discrepancy as well as all that other stuff. I was kinda bummed about it after it got fried, but then I got these sweet frames… I’m glad you like ‘em.”

“I said they suited you, not that I liked them.”

To his credit, Prompto only faltered for the briefest flash, before he caught on and rolled his eyes, chuckling. Only then did Cor allow one side of his mouth to raise in a smirk.

“Yeah, well, I admit, you gotta be real cool to pull off these bad boys,” he said, flicking imaginary long hair back with a preen, as arrogant as the bird beside him.

“Uh-huh, “cool”,” Cor deadpanned, heartened to see the kid giggle again.

But that was enough chit-chat for now.

“You got a minute?” he asked, inclining his head toward a set of plastic chairs under a yellow umbrella. He would’ve preferred a little more privacy, but there were no other visitors about, and the king’s retinue were camped at the nearest Haven instead of using the caravans, so indoors wasn’t an option.

It was probably better to be out in the open in case the boy opted for a physical response, anyway. It wasn’t easy to swing a decent punch in those metal boxes, or defend against one. Not that Cor planned for a fight, but he wouldn’t blame the kid.

He tried to ignore the way Prompto’s shoulders stiffened at the request, and the wary way he glanced to Noctis and the others, as if about to seek their help.

As first impressions went, Cor’s had definitely been suboptimal… _necessary_ … but still.

Gladiolus had joined the other two at the far end of the field. They were watching quietly, but made no move to intercept, particularly on the king’s part.

Scienta must have got to him.

Noctis was watching Prompto intently, but nodded when Ignis spoke, words lost to even Prompto’s hearing, Cor estimated. That one hadn’t been a chip-related enhancement, at least.

“Uhh... sure, Marshal,” the kid said, sounding anything but. He coaxed the mare gently from his leg and stood, dusting off his trousers self-consciously. “What’s up?”

He looked so much like a kid expecting a scolding that Cor couldn’t help but grin; half-reassuring, half-amused.

“Don’t worry, you’re not in trouble.”

“Oh?” Prompto brightened. “Oh! Um, okay!”

Cor snorted, jerking his thumb toward the table.

“Come on, before that bird gets any ideas about chasing you for those greens you’ve got stashed in your pockets.”

The kid flashed a sheepish grin, and hurried to catch up with Cor, a hand coming up to rub at his neck.

“Don’t tell Iggs, would ya? He’ll give me another lecture about spoiling them.”

“If Scientia doesn’t notice I’d say that’s his failing, not yours,” Cor said, blithely, and again ignored Prompto’s reaction; this time a happy, if surprised, one.

They reached the café table and Cor gestured the kid to the far side, so he could face him for this next part.

When Prompto was sat down, and already starting to look unsettled again, Cor began.

Carrot before stick.

“I’ve spoken to what remains of the council of Insomnia. I’m recommending you for entry into the Crownsguard, effective immediately upon your acceptance.”

Prompto’s face remained blank for a long moment, clearly waiting for the other shoe to drop.

_Sorry, kid, not just yet._

Realisation dawned like a summer’s day, and almost as bright as the smile that spread across the kid’s face.

“You... what. You WHAT?!” he screeched.

Yup, there were the chocobo genes, all-right. Cor was going to have to get a hearing check in with medical after this.

Cor saw that Noctis and the others were looking over to them suspiciously. He raised a hand, hidden from Prompto beneath the table, discouraging any ideas of approaching. He could practically see Noct’s hackles raising, but thankfully Ignis caught his shoulder before he was half-way the through his first determined step toward them.

Cor ignored the resulting argument in favour of the kid in front of him, whose face had gone almost as red as his sunburnt nose.

“Usually there’s a period of probation,” he said, “Tests as to your physical, mental, and emotional aptitude, and the like. Given the circumstances, I argued in favour of your experience to date. The council agreed.”

 _Eventually_.

“Ohmygosh,” Prompto whispered, clearly stunned, “Ohmygosh, ohmygosh, ohmygo— but I’m not even Lucian!”

“Neither’s Scientia.”

“I’m not noble born!”

Cor raised an eyebrow, leaning back against the plastic seat and folding his arms. “Neither am I.”

“Yeah but, but, you’re the _Immortal_. A prodigy! I’m just a... a...”

“Argentum,” Cor said, cutting the kid off sternly, “I think I can say with certainty, that in your life you have never been “just” anything. Take the win, son. You’ve more than earned it.”

Prompto had gone stiff at Cor’s tone – _how long was Cor going to have to endure that?_ – looking briefly hunted; but now his expression turned solemn, a frown wiping away his smile. He looked down at his hands in his lap, and even though Cor couldn’t see, he knew the kid was looking at his new wrist-cuff, and the barcode beneath it. He’d noticed the Royal Favour stamped on the leather; Noctis must have commissioned it from Lestallum.

“I... I’m not worthy,” he started, but then his mouth set into a determined line. He looked up at Cor, chin held firmly out, and shoulders back, “but I’ll do my best. For Noctis.”

Cor smiled. Before he thought better of it, he reached across and ruffled the kid’s hair. It was as soft as chocobo feathers, despite all the product he must need to maintain that quiff.

(Cor was absolutely _not_ going to call it a Prompadour.)

Prompto squawked in protest, ducking away from Cor’s hand and bringing up his own to fuss the locks back into its carefully-crafted position. 

“Do your best for you, son,” Cor said, “Noct can take care of himself.” He paused, looking over to their regent, who had apparently lost his fight with his advisor and was now stomping over to the abandoned chocobo like the world – or more accurately, _Cor_ – had personally offended him.

“...Most of the time,” he amended, flashing Prompto a broader grin.

Prompto returned it, chuckling. He turned his gaze on the king, a look of utter devotion softening the worry around his eyes.

Cor’s smile got a little wider. _Yeah, they had nothing to worry about._

“I wanted to tell you that,” he said, both of them with their gaze still focused on Noctis. “I wanted you to know how valued you are. Not as a weapon, or an asset, but as a friend and ally of Lucis... of Noct’s.”

“I... I appreciate it, Marshal.” Prompto’s voice was thick, and, _dammit_ , Cor was _not_ going to look at the kid and chicken out.

It was stick time.

“I need you to know that what we’ve just discussed is completely separate to what I’m about to tell you,” he said, firmly (though damn him if he wasn’t using it to soften the blow). “That isn’t a conditional offer, or one given out of pity or... guilt,” he forced himself to say the word, because, yeah, despite what he said, he was feeling guilty as _shit_.

“I also want you to know that should you feel differently about taking the position, or even staying in Lucis after this, that I will understand completely. I’ll even help you relocate, wherever you want to go, even if it’s back to Niflheim.”

He risked a glance in the kid’s direction.

Prompto was giving him what was rapidly becoming a patent ‘Argentum’ look of deep, yet carefully lighthearted anxiety.

“Uhh, you’re kinda scaring me a little there, Cor, buddy.”

Cor huffed at the casual endearment, the tension breaking, as he was certain the kid had intended.

_Damn, if they’d had him young he would have made a first-rate spy._

_If..._

Cor took a single photograph from his inside jacket pocket and slid it across the table toward the newest member of the Guard.

“Take a look.”

Prompto shot him an unsure glance, but picked up the picture, and looked at it curiously.

He sat in silence for a long time, staring down at the image.

“I don’t think I need to clarify, given the context; but this is a still image, taken from the copy I made of your memories,” Cor said, unapologetically. He cleared his throat then gave himself a mental kick in the ass – not the first he’d needed that day – sitting up straighter in his seat.

“Just over twenty years ago, I led a covert intelligence-gathering operation to infiltrate a Niff base, not far from the northern border,” he said. “It was routine, one of many such forays. While we were there I came across what I thought was a warehouse for storage containers. When I opened one...” Cor leant across the space between them, and tapped the top of the picture.

“…You were hooked up to about a dozen different wires and pipes. I didn’t even think you were alive for a moment,” he said. “Then you opened your eyes and looked up at me, and I knew. I knew what those monsters were doing. I looked down at you and I thought about taking you. Unhooking you from your wires and pipes and the damn machines, and bringing you back to Lucis. Not as some trophy, or science experiment, or any of that shit, but just to give you the chance of a life. A life you _deserved_.”

Cor sat back, crossing his arms and sighing deeply. He couldn’t help the self-disgusted grimace that tugged his lips downward.

“But I didn’t,” he said, knowing he sounded hollow, callous. “There were hundreds of crates. Who was I to choose which of you to save, or even if you _could_ be saved? It was dead winter and we were in the middle of a dangerous military operation; you might have died at any point, even if you survived being removed from your pod… So I left you in that hell-pit, and I regretted it every damn day of my life ever since.”

The ranch was silent.

Cor watched the kid, who hadn’t stopped staring at the picture.

Four seconds. That’s how long Cor’s image lasted on the recording before the lid shut the video back into darkness and he disappeared forever. Four seconds he’d looked down at the baby the kid in front of him had been, laying in a glass and metal crib, without even a blanket to comfort him. Four seconds to decide his fate, to cast him aside to a life of misery, torture, and mutilation.

Cor looked at Prompto: the test subject, the Magitek Unit, the broken monster; and he felt again the heavy weight of regret.

He waited tensely, trying to steel himself for the kid’s reaction. Whatever Prompto said – whatever he _did_ – Cor would sit here and face him, like the boy deserved. He wouldn’t run away again.

Prompto looked up from the photo, and flashed Cor a lopsidedly shy, yet cheeky, grin.

“You got real old, huh?”

Cor coughed out an incredulous laugh at the man the baby had become, and a little more of that regret melted away into admiration.

“I can still rescind my recommendation,” he managed to growl, wagging a finger at the kid, but knowing it lacked his usual clout.

Prompto _cackled_. He held up the picture, turned toward Cor, and pointed, as if Cor hadn’t spent the last week staring at the damn thing.

“I mean, you’re called the ‘Immortal’, dude, but look, your hair used to be brown, not grey!”

“Muh—! My hair is NOT grey!”

“Dude, Cor, it so is!” Prompto pulled the photograph away from the marshal’s lunging hands, whirling like a dancer (or trained assassin) out of range and toward Noctis, who was still watching them with unsubtle curiosity whilst being buffeted by a chocobo’s wing.

“Hey, Noct! Check out the Marshal’s _retro_ style! It’s back when he was young—”

“May I remind you that I officially outrank you, now, Argentum!” Cor shouted after him. He didn’t bother to run, it wouldn’t be dignified.

(Besides, the top running speed of a chocobo was 60.3mph.)

“—er,” Prompto corrected, barely breaking stride, “When he was _younger_ than his still _very young_ age. And retro is _cool_ , you know. Very ‘in’ just now.”

He reached Noctis, slinging his arm around the king’s neck, and shoving the picture in his face.

“Wait, what?” Noct said, staring at Cor as he took in the meaning of what Cor had said.

“Oh, yeah, sorry dude, you’re stuck with me. I’m, like, totally a Crownsguard now. Cor said I’m super awesome and get a free ride ‘cause I saved your ass so many times. He went and begged the council and everything.”

“You’re pushing it, Argentum,” Cor growled.

Prompto, eyes sparkling, threw a sloppy salute with the arm still slung around Noct’s neck, their heads pressed together so that Noct was included by-proxy.

“Sir, yes, sir.”

Noctis let himself be manhandled, staring, open mouthed, at Cor.

Cor stared, silent and blank faced, back.

Noct broke first, finally looking down at the photo being waved in front of him. It took a second for his brain to interpret what his eyes were being shown, and then he snatched it up in both hands, bringing it closer to his face.

“Wait. _Wait_. WHAT??”

Prompto hung lazily from Noct’s shoulder, doing more to support him in standing than it appeared, Cor suspected.

“Right? I always thought baby pictures were, like, of the _baby_ , y’know? Kinda rude, honestly. But I bet if I enhance the image on his eye – here – I can get a decent reflection. We could blow it up. Start an album!”

Noct tore his gaze from the photo to side-eye the kid, a small, uncertain frown on his face.

“Dude...”

Prompto made use of his free hands to smush Noct’s cheeks together, turning the King of Lucis’s mouth into fish-lips.

“Aww, you don’t wanna see kewt baybee Pwompto?”

This, again, had the desired effect, snapping Noctis from his stupor as he bristled at the treatment.

As the pair started tussling, Cor crossed to the chocobo fence, leaning against it heavily. Prompto was right, though he’d never admit it: he was getting old. The last ten minutes hadn’t been easy.

“Did I hear correctly?” Ignis said, approaching from the opposite side of the fence. “Is our youngest to be congratulated?”

“You heard right.”

“Good for him,” Gladio said, coming to Cor’s other side and resting his folded arms on top of the creaking fence. “It’s about damn time.”

They observed the King of Lucis and hopeful future saviour of the world for a while, rolling in the dirt of a chocobo pen with his genetically-enhanced-by-their-mortal-enemies, supersoldier best friend. The afternoon sun was warm; a gentle breeze stirring the grass and sending the comforting scent of hay and chocobos across the ranch. It was had to imagine they were in the middle of a war when in such an idyllic place. But – Cor thought, with a gentle smile – sometimes it was okay to rest for a while, to remember what it was all for.

“I think it time Prompto was introduced to the processes of laundry,” Ignis mused.

“Looks like Noct’s volunteered for the job,” Gladio chuckled.

Prompto had Noct in a grapple, holding His Majesty’s head dangerously close to a pile of chocobo manure. The king was loudly decrying traitor, regicide, and uncle in one long invective.

Cor grinned.

It may have been a rough start, but the future was starting to look a little brighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~fin T x


End file.
